


jenna221b's filled ficlet prompts

by jenna221b



Series: Ficlet Prompts from tumblr [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anniversary, BAMF Mary, Cat, Crying Mycroft, Crying Sherlock, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s02e06 The Final Problem, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, F/F, Fireworks, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fix-It, Fluff, Gay Bar, Gen, Height Differences, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Hoopkins, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injured John, John's Childhood, John's blog, John's emails to his "girlfriends", Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, London, Love Actually References, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is not an Ice Man, One Shot Collection, Parentlock, Pet Names, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Series, Rosie gets a girlfriend, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes's Birthday, Sherlock Likes to Dance, Sherlock loves dogs, Sick Sherlock, Sleepy Sherlock, Storms, Stream of Consciousness, Taxis, Texting, Uncle Rudy - Freeform, kidcroft, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 20,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: A collection of stories prompted by requests on tumblr- some happy, some sad, but hopefully always uplifting. <3 Tags updating as each new ficlet is posted. <3





	1. A Hypothetical Dog

Sherlock clears his throat. “ _Hypothetically_ -” 

John pushes away his toast. “Oh, God. What?” 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Hypothetically, if… if we were to- hypothetically- have a, um- hypothetically-”

John rolls his eyes and grins. “Yeah, yeah, _hypothetically_ , I’ve got that part.”

Sherlock glances at Rosie in her high chair as if he’s looking for backup. John wonders if he’ll ever have a day where he doesn’t find something about Sherlock Holmes endearing.

Sherlock breathes in and out, then, in a rush: “Hypothetically if we got a hypothetical dog would you be hypothetically adverse to the hypothetical idea or- or not.”

John laughs in surprise. “Where’s this coming from?”

Sherlock nods towards their daughter. “Rosie, of course.” 

“Oh, I see, you’ve already had a discussion, then.”

“Yep. She’s made her case quite clear.” 

Sherlock flips open his laptop to reveal many _many_ pictures of puppies. “Her smile widens three times more often when she’s looking at these pictures than compared to when she isn’t.” 

John peers closer at the screen. His own smile grows. “Sherlock, is your _entire_ internet history just pictures of dogs?” 

Sherlock elbows him gently. “That’s beside the point.”

John kisses his cheek. “Hmm. What about, Mrs Hudson?”

“John. She lets me use her freezer for body parts and borrows my handcuffs for- for- _why_ did you make me think of that? Anyway, she’d be fine.”

“So, long story short, _Rosie_ would really like a dog.”

Rosie’s head snaps up at John’s voice. “God, god!” she babbles, with a toothy grin. 

Sherlock looks at her with the softest smile. “Eh, close enough,” he says to her. 

John nudges him. “ _You’d_ really like a dog.” 

Sherlock swallows. “Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically.” John feels the warmth in his chest, and before he realises what he’s saying, the words are already out: “Okay, then. Let’s do it.” 

Sherlock gapes a little. “ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah. I always wanted a pet. Harry will be so _jealous_.”

The light in Sherlock’s eyes is utterly joyous. “I-er- might have set up a- a hypothetical appointment. To- to look at… a litter. Golden labs.” 

John stands. “Shall we _hypothetically_ go, then?” At Sherlock’s delighted smile, he adds, “Mrs Hudson might even let us go in her car,” just so he can get an excited kiss.


	2. Uncle comes for tea

Sherlock hears it before he sees him: a slow, careful tread up the stairs, the muffled click of the umbrella. He sighs, adjusts his grip on Rosie, and opens the door. Mycroft steps backwards, caught off guard.

“Ah,” he says.

Sherlock frowns. “What? I _said_ I was baby-sitting.”

Mycroft smiles a little. “I thought you were joking.” 

Sherlock snorts and bounces Rosie up and down. “You hear that? He thinks you’re a joke.” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, Mycroft, calm down. She’s a _baby_ , she’s not going to misrepresent your words in court.” 

“Stranger things have happened.” 

Sherlock laughs, a genuine one, which seems to take both him and Mycroft by surprise. Mycroft clears his throat. “Well, since you’re not working, I’ll text you the details. ‘It’ doesn’t need much of your attention until the end of the week.” 

Mycroft has already turned around to head back down the stairs when Sherlock’s said it: “Mycroft. Stay?”

Mycroft slowly turns around. He blinks four times, rapidly. “I’m sorry?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, trying to cover up the sudden clench in his gut. “You heard me perfectly well.” 

He whirls about, not waiting to see if Mycroft’s following or not. But then, Rosie makes her voice known:

“My! My?”

Sherlock glances down at her questioning look, then turns back around. Mycroft is frozen in place, expression predictably unreadable.

Sherlock squeezes Rosie reassuringly. “Well, it’s not as bad as  _Mike_ , so he’ll probably forgive you for that.”

Mycroft tilts his head. “Possibly. No promises.” But Sherlock can tell that Rosie has already won him over.

“Right, come on,” he says. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Mycroft blinks again. “How very domesticated of you, brother mine.”

“Mm, yes. It’s. _Bliss_.”

Mycroft perches gingerly on John’s armchair, and Sherlock seizes his chance. Without warning, he deposits Rosie into his brother’s lap. 

_“Sherlock!”_

“What? I told you, I’m putting the kettle on.” 

Mycroft rearranges his arms so he’s holding Rosie properly and Sherlock grins, triumphant.  _“Ha.”_

“Oh, what _now?_ ”

“Caught you. Thought you were ‘never very good’ with babies.”

Mycroft laughs at Sherlock’s dramatic air-quotes. “Did you really believe that? Did you think I spent my time holding _you_ at arm’s length?” 

Sherlock’s mouth clicks shut. “Oh. Well. I- make yourself acquainted, then.”

The kettle’s just starting to boil when he hears John come up behind him. He turns and wraps one arm around John’s waist into a hug. “How was Harry?”

John smiles. “She was… good. Really good. It was nice.” He jerks his head towards the living room. “That’s something I never thought I’d see.”

“I know. Should probably put it in the Guinness World Records.” 

Mycroft does not dignify that with a response and Sherlock grins, knowing he is well within ear shot. 

The kettle clicks, good to go. “How do you take your tea, Mycroft?” John asks, and bless him, Sherlock does appreciate the effort.

“As black as his soul,” Sherlock replies, as Mycroft cuts in: “I’ve already told Watson it’s just milk.”


	3. You Know Me

Sherlock knows there is a difference between exhaustion and sleepiness.

For example, objectively he knows right now would be an excellent time to sleep. He can feel the overtired headache looming, feels his eyes smart at the glare of his laptop screen. And yet it all still feels so irritating, the tiredness just an annoying pest to repeatedly bat away.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock starts and looks up. John is fresh out of the shower and in pyjamas, perched on the end of the bed. He’s frowning at him- not judgment, never that, just concern. He glances at his wristwatch then looks back up to Sherlock.

“It’s only nine,” Sherlock says defensively. “Don’t you watch a Bond film or something, now?”

John rolls his eyes and smiles. “Yeah, I’m not worried about how late or not it is, I’m worried ‘cause you didn’t sleep at all last night either.”

Sherlock sighs. “I’m sorry, I- I can’t, John. I need to solve it.”

John sighs back in reply. “There’s not a time limit, Sherlock,” he says, so gently that Sherlock could cry. He knows they’ve been used to cutting things close, to the wire, cases where lives depend- well. It’s hard to switch that pattern off.

John stands and walks over to the desk. He peers over Sherlock’s shoulder and makes a fond “ah” sort of noise. “Sherlock, you’ve just written “why” seven times.“

And before Sherlock can snap back, John saves the progress on his work, and closes the laptop lid.

"I’ll make you a deal, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve read the files- the world is not going to end if this doesn’t get solved tonight. But, fine, if you feel you must. Just give me five minutes.”

Sherlock blinks. “For what?”

John looks pointedly at the bed. “Cuddle.”

Sherlock is too tired to argue. Five minutes. He supposes the case can wait five minutes. “Alright.”

They lie in bed, facing each other. John smiles and pulls Sherlock closer.

“I understand,” he says and runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock already feels his shoulders dropping, an invisible weight set free.

“Understand what?”

“Don’t think I’ve not been there, Sherlock. You know, when everything feels impossible and the only thing that makes sense is to go to bloody sleep but even that feels like you’re failing. Something like that.”

“Hmm. How-” Sherlock stifles something that was definitely not a yawn “-insightful.”

John chuckles. He’s still stroking Sherlock’s hair and it feels perfect. “Is that sarcasm or genuine?”

“Is it wh…you know me, John,” Sherlock replies. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realises that was a much slower response than normal but….what does that matter…

“That I do.”

The bed is warm, Sherlock thinks. Not even thinks, just a distant…impression. Or something. His head feels heavy.

Oh. He tries to blink. John’s face, John’s beautiful face slides in and out of the darkness. “S'almost five minutes, John.”

John sighs again, but he’s smiling. “No. Four minutes and 32 seconds. I’ve been counting.”

“You-” Sherlock yawns in spite of himself. “There’s…Lestrade and Hopkins…should text to…” And the thought trails off and he can’t bring himself to care. He forces his eyes open to…he needs to…

“’M so…so sleepy, John.”

John kisses him, and Sherlock’s eyes close again. It’s too much effort to keep them open, now…now…

“That’s good, Sherlock. You’re- you’re allowed to be, okay? Sleep well.”

He’s tumbling down, down, down he knows, but Sherlock mumbles: “Still 10 seconds.”

John chuckles again. He strokes Sherlock’s hair slowly…slowly…

He whispers: “Nine…eight…”

Sherlock is out for the count by the time he reaches six.


	4. London Lights Up

_It’s over; it’s over; it’s over._

He keeps on repeating it in his mind, as his heart still hammers away, still frantic, still believing there is danger ahead even though it’s passed. 

Hands grip his forearms, keeping him upright. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Sherlock blinks and blinks and then he really _looks_. He sees John shaking in front of him, looking every bit as shocked as Sherlock feels. “You- you okay?” John asks. His voice is breathless and strained.

Sherlock breathes out. “Y-yeah I’m- I’m fine.” And that surprises him. “A-and you?” he says, raising his voice above the wail of police sirens. 

John laughs, and it sounds like a laugh that has crept up on him all at once, high-pitched and liberated, and Sherlock hasn’t heard anything like it in years. “Yeah- oh, Christ, Sherlock.”

They both have tears in their eyes, Sherlock knows, and he doesn’t care. It’s beautiful. 

Distantly, he hears Big Ben chime out the hour, and with each toll of the bell, he feels stronger. John is _safe_ , they’re together, it’s going to be okay. He could run a marathon, climb a mountain, dance-

A spark of colour in his periphery vision, and John makes a half gasp, half laugh sort of noise, and Sherlock’s heart is singing.

John points. “Look.”

Sherlock does. He looks out across the Thames, and he sees a boat, setting off fireworks. _A surprise for someone_ , he deduces. _Birthday- no. Wedding? No. Ah! Engage-_

John nudges him and Sherlock’s thoughts immediately break off. “Catherine wheels were always my favourite,” John says.

And it’s such an offhand, such a wonderfully _John_ thing to say, that Sherlock is giggling at the wonder of it, and he turns, and marvels at the beauty of John’s face, lit up by the fireworks.

The police start filtering out of cars all around them. There will be questions soon but for now, there is this, just this. John and Sherlock keep their backs to the clamour around them, and just watch the fireworks.

“This is the most- the most ridiculous thing,” Sherlock says. He’s still giggling a little, but nerves are suddenly kicking in again, and he doesn’t quite know why.

John turns and looks at him. His gaze is abruptly serious, and he reaches up and places his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock is not sure if either of them are breathing.

“Not… not the most ridiculous,” John whispers.

And, in the end, they both reach for each other, and they are kissing, and _kissing_ , as the London sky is lit up with colours, celebrating _this is us this is us_ , as Big Ben chimes out- they have all the time left in the world.


	5. You Don't Have To

They’re lying in bed together, and they’re laughing about something stupid that happened at the Yard, and John says it without thinking:

“God, did you see Stella’s face? Reminded me of when you were quizzing Greg about the Mayfly-”

He stops himself, his laughter fading and dying. “Sorry,” he says. Sherlock turns and props himself up with one elbow, raising one eyebrow in question. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to bring up-well-all of that-”

And Sherlock’s smile fades away, too, and John feels guilt twist in his guts. “Oh, John,” Sherlock says, so gentle. “Don’t be daft.”

And John’s mouth does curve upwards at that, at how Sherlock just seamlessly adopts his own little sayings. It’s endearing- he doesn’t think Sherlock is even aware he’s doing it.

John exhales. He doesn’t want the regret of the past to fill this night but, God, it does still hurt. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“John. You don’t have anything-”

“You must have _hated_ it. All those people.”

Sherlock shuffles closer to him and kisses his bare shoulder. “Well, I couldn’t hate everything. _You_ were there.”

He’s saying it so flippantly, but John knows Sherlock’s avoidance tactics all too well now. He’s joking to spare John any hurt.

John glances down and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head, fierce and protective. “Promise me something, Sherlock.”

“Mmm. Anything.”

“You don’t- you don’t have to- to _go_ to things, for my benefit. If you want to, and it makes you happy, then yeah…but. But don’t.” He sighs, annoyed at himself for stammering.

Sherlock is looking up at him with heavy eyes, and John knows it’s taking all of his effort to continue having this conversation. “John,” Sherlock whispers, but he still manages to say it so firmly, that John can hear everything speaking underneath his name: _I understand. It’s alright. I forgive you, if there’s anything you feel I have to forgive. I love you. I do so love you._

John wraps his arms around Sherlock, wanting him close and safe. “D’you want to go to the cinema tomorrow? Morning showing, it’ll be quiet.”

“I’d like tha….hmm, sorry, yeah. Yes. ‘M falling asleep, sorry.”

John smiles. “You don’t have anything to say sorry for.”

Sherlock rouses himself enough to say, “Good. See? Neither do you.”

They sleep together in the quiet.


	6. Remember Sleep

Sherlock still finds it hard, sometimes, to allow himself to sleep. He usually never sleeps all the way through the night, his body jolting itself awake in preparation to run, to fight, to _survive_ - 

He can still hear that voice in his year from those dark years: “Sleep. Remember sleep?” 

But now, Sherlock thinks, chastising himself, it really is just getting silly. He’s stretched out on the couch, hardly aware that he’s dozing, until there’s the sound of a door opening, and he jumps back into awareness.

“You okay?”

Stupid, _stupid_. John is standing in the doorway, he was coming back from Mrs Hudson’s, for God’s sake, why can’t he just calm down and rest-

Sherlock breathes out. He hopes how fast his heart is beating isn’t obvious, but it’s John, of course he will see. “Yeah,” he says, aiming for nonchalance. “I’ll- I’ll just um wash up-”

His legs are swinging round to the front of the couch, but John gently nudges them back with his hip.

“You’ve never washed the dishes in your life,” John says. And it’s in that tone Sherlock adores, the one that means _fond_ and _love_ and _I understand_. “It’s okay, stay there, Sherlock. You’re exhausted.”

“It’s fine. I’m- I’m awake now, so-”

John smiles and walks forward, brushing Sherlock’s hair back to kiss his forehead. “Yeah, but you don’t want to be,” he says, lips brushing against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock can’t argue with that. 

John squeezes his shoulder gently, then moves to switch the TV on. The volume is kept down low- Sherlock doesn’t even register what channel or programme is playing. 

John walks in front of him, smiles, then heads into the kitchen. Sherlock’s eyes still drift over to the TV screen. It could just be him, but he swears the screen is getting fuzzier, harder to focus on.

He can hear John in the kitchen putting the kettle on to boil, running the tap for the dishes to soak in. It’s only when John starts softly signing (Frank Sinatra, maybe? He’s not quite sure), and when Sherlock’s eyes are blinking so much slower, that Sherlock realises:

_Oh, John. Background noise._

And it’s working, Sherlock can feel himself calming, his body letting go. If he wasn’t so tired, he would leap up and kiss John then and there. He yawns, his eyes closing…and opening… and close…

From so very far away, he hears John shushing Rosie: “He’s sleeping now, love. I know, I know, you can see him later-”

And despite sleep washing over him, Sherlock still hears her little cry. Now, that won’t do. That won’t do at _all_.

“Hmm… not quite,” he murmurs. His eyes are too heavy to open anymore.

John’s footsteps come closer, treading carefully. “Almost,” he says, a laugh and a whisper all in one. 

Sherlock feels a little hand grip his finger. He smiles and with the last of his strength, wiggles his finger. Rosie giggles.

“Come on, now, there you go,” John says. He’s lifting Rosie back up. Sherlock lets his hand fall, feels his lips parting in sleep. 

The last thing he hears is John murmuring, “That’s it. You’re safe, okay? I promise you, I’ll be right here. I’ll wake you for dinner.”


	7. Nothing Can Happen

He’d only looked away for one second while switching off his laptop. But when Sherlock looks up, he sees Rosie’s finger reaching for the plug socket. His heart plummets.

“No!” he says, and quickly bats her hand away. She freezes and looks up at him in indignation. “ _No,_ ” Sherlock says firmly. He is trying so very hard to keep his voice level. “No, Rosie.”

She blinks at him. Then, her finger reaches out again.

“No! Don’t you _understand?_ ” Sherlock can feel his voice cracking. “It’s _dangerous_. You just can’t _do_ these things- nothing bad can happen to you, that’s not- that’s not _allowed_ , do you hear me? _Do you hear me?_ ”

Rosie’s cries wake him up. His mouth shuts as he realises just how _loud_ he’s being. Her hands aren’t at the plug socket anymore, but her face is red from crying and confusion.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

He lifts her up and cuddles her close, going _ssh ssh ssh shh_ with every breath. “But you weren’t to know,” he says softly. “You weren’t to know, eh? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…”

He feels his eyes smarting, and tries to sniff it all back. This is _not_ about him, this is not about-

Her cries have already faded off as she slips into a doze. He still feels awful.

When John comes back from visiting Harry, Rosie is already in bed. He hugs Sherlock, his usual _hello, I missed you_ hug, and Sherlock clears his throat and asks:

“Could- um… would you text when, when you’re- you’re on your way back? I-” He falters at John’s soft smile, his nod of encouragement. “I still find it… difficult,” Sherlock finishes.

“Me, too,” John says.

They still feel that pull, that incessant worry whenever they’re apart that _Something_ is bound to happen and and and-

“I will,” John says, and cups the back of Sherlock’s head in his hand. Sherlock breathes out, and finally feels himself relax. “I will, ‘course I will.”


	8. Double Date

Sherlock leans back and takes another swig of wine. He points towards a group of girls sitting a few tables away from them. “Yeah, alright, what about them?” 

Stella follows his finger. “What about them?” 

Sherlock snorts into his drink, and John, far from the first time tonight, feels a rush of fondness for him. “Hen party or birthday party?”

Stella laughs. “That’s not a _deduction_ , that doesn’t-”

“Well, I’m having a night off.” 

“No, but really though.” Stella pulls a seat in. There’s a determined spark in her eyes. “I need to know how you do it. If I’m ever going to make it as-” She stops at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “Oh _what?_ ”

Sherlock drains his wine glass before replying. John feels his feet brush against his under the table and he leans closer, savouring the blush building on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Stella, you’ve solved approximately 80% of all cases sent your way, and at least 75% of those didn’t involve me in any capacity.” 

“So?”

“ _So_ , you don’t really need a ‘new method.’ Mine works for me, obviously. Whatever you’re doing is working for _you_. Very well, I might add.”

Stella grins and gestures her own glass towards Sherlock in a _cheers_ gesture. “Well, ta very much, love.”

“Drinks!”

They all turn as Molly puts a whole tray of various cocktails on the table. “My round,” she says, but John frowns.

“Um, I think it was my tu-”

“Sssh, John. Stella, was yours the…  mojito?”

“Nope.”

“Is there a free drink going?” Sherlock pipes up. “I’ll have it.”

John kicks him under the table, laughing. “Oi, you- that’s mine.”

Molly hands him the mojito. Sherlock’s eyes are like saucers. “I didn’t know you liked mojitos.”

“Ooh, don’t have a domestic, lads,” Stella says. She’s not looking at them though, too busy pulling Molly in for a kiss.

John laughs at Sherlock’s shocked face. “Sorry, I didn’t make that clear. What, it’s not like you need to update a bloody folder on me or-” 

Molly breaks apart from Stella with a large hoot of laughter. Sherlock’s face is completely red. “Molly, don’t you d-” 

“Let’s play a game,” Stella says, the voice of diplomacy. 

Molly is still giggling, and John raises his eyebrows at her. She winks. 

“Alright! Never have I ever… made an entire folder about my-”

_“Molly!”_


	9. Jigsaw Puzzle

John leans against the door-frame and smiles. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock jumps, and whatever he’s rearranging on the bookcase goes flying. A box lands on the rug, little pieces of cardboard spilling out everywhere. John looks closer. Oh. Not cardboard.

He walks across and bends down, helping Sherlock pick up the pieces. “Jigsaw?” 

Sherlock tellingly hesitates. John loves how he’s become an open book to him. “Client left it.” 

“Ah, got it.” John straightens up. “Just like a ‘client’ left that box of Operation? And Mouse Trap?” 

Sherlock blushes. “Stop being smart.” 

John feels his stomach flutter. “Can’t stop a natural reflex, sorry.” 

Sherlock chuckles, deep and liberated. 

John opens up the box and lets the remaining pieces fall. “Do you want to make it?” 

Sherlock blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, we don’t have anything on today. Why not?” 

A slow smile starts to spread on Sherlock’s lips. He sits down, and crosses his legs. “You really want to?”

John feels a little twist of sadness at how Sherlock could ever feel the need to ask for that reassurance. He sits down and spreads the pieces out between them. “’Course.” 

Five minutes later, it turns out they have grossly underestimated how long this would take. 

Sherlock frowns. “This is- hmm. More difficult than I remembered.”

John giggles. “God, look at us. I should make a blog post. _Stumped by jigsaw puzzle, help wanted_.”

Sherlock splutters indignantly. “We don’t need _help_! Ooh, here’s one.”

He slots a piece into place and John squints, and turns his head. “Ohhh, it’s a pirate ship.” 

And it’s Sherlock who’s giggling, now. “Honestly, John, what did you think it was?”

“I dunno, I was looking at it upside down.”

“I’m arranging an optician’s appointment for you.”

“Cheeky git. Hey, wait, that one doesn’t go there!”

But Sherlock still pushes the piece in, rather forcefully. “It does, now. Creative expression.” 

John leans over and kisses him. “You’re mad.” 

Sherlock smiles into the kiss. “I always put that piece there. It pissed Mycroft off _so much_.”

“Maybe we should text him for instructions.”

“He’s got a meeting with the Prime Minister.”

“Even better, they could help, too.”

“ _You’re_ mad.”


	10. A Knife

“He had a knife.”

John sighs. “I know.”

“He had a knife.”

“Sherlock.”

“He-” Sherlock feels his voice constrict and crumble, but he pushes past the sting in his eyes. “He had a knife.”

“Sherlock,” John repeats. “I know.”

“I’m- I’m only taking 3s, 3s at a maximum.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Really? Do you want to bore yourself to tears?”

“John, kindly shut up.”

But John is already reaching forward, sitting up in bed to wrap his arms around him. “And what if one of the 3s has a knife? Or even the 1s? A case not being clever doesn’t mean there won’t be danger.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “If this is you trying to make me feel better then please don’t.”

It’s meant to come out sharp and biting. But Sherlock can’t help the spiralling panic from bleeding into the words.

“Oh, Sherlock. Love, I-” John breaks off to press a kiss to his temple, tightening his hold. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… You can’t live your life on “what ifs”. Trust me, it destroys you.“

Sherlock sniffs. He puts a shaking hand up to swipe at his eyes. "I can’t- I can’t lose you.”

He feels John taking a hold of his hand, moving it away from his face. He opens his eyes and John is staring at him. John makes another “oh” sound, something painful from the back of his throat, and he moves Sherlock closer so Sherlock can rest his head in between John’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock lets him.

“I’m here,” John says. “I’m right here.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out one great shuddering breath. He’s getting John’s neck wet. He feels his body sway a little in exhaustion and then he can’t even keep himself upright. John gently moves him backwards to lie in bed.

“Ssh. Sleep now, yeah? I love you. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Sherlock kisses John’s neck and even that tires him more. “Love you,” he says, and it means “please be careful” and “I can’t” and “I don’t know how I could ever-” and “don’t leave.”

As Sherlock slips into sleep, the second kiss on his temple tells him John has heard him.


	11. First Day of School

“She doesn’t need to go today.”

John looks up in the middle of doing Rosie’s ponytail. Sherlock is staring at a slide on his microscope, though John suspects it’s empty.

“What do you mean? This is the date.”

Sherlock sighs. “We could… delay it.”

John secures the bobble into place and taps Rosie on the shoulder to say he’s done. “By how long?”

“Six months? A year?”

John starts laughing. “Sherlock, don’t be-”

But he pauses, and really looks. Sherlock is still staring down at the microscope, shoulders high, back rigid.

John clears his throat. “Rosie? Go and fetch your school bag would you, there’s a love.”

She grins and flicks her ponytail. “Okay, daddy.”

John watches her bound off to her room. He’s quietly impressed at his hair tying skills. Should text Harry, tell her she gave him all that good practice whenever her hair was wild in the morning.

John goes to Sherlock and places his hands on his shoulders. “I know kids can be cruel,” he murmurs, so Rosie can’t hear. “I do get it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relax. He leans back into John’s chest, craning his neck to look at John upside down. “Sorry, I know she’s excited. I just…” He sighs, and John hears his past in that sigh. “What if-what if-”

John cuts him off with a kiss. “Then we’ll be there, okay? We’ll be there.”

“Ready!”

They both jump. Rosie stands tall as and proud, school bag hoisted up on her back. John smiles at her. “Brilliant, sweetheart. Come on, then.”

She’s about to skip off but Sherlock stands and calls her back. “Rosie!”

She stops and Sherlock lifts her up and she giggles loudly. “Have fun,” he says sincerely.

John’s chest warms with pride.

Sherlock plants a large “mwah” of a kiss on her forehead. He sets her down and John takes her hand.

“I’ll join you at the crime scene, okay? Text me where you are. Or if you’re busy, just get Greg to-”

“John.” Sherlock is smiling. “I’ll text you. Now, hurry or you’ll be late for her!”


	12. A Poet

John is welcomed home by the sight of Rosie and Sherlock both sat on the couch typing away on their respective laptops. 

He laughs. “Hello, you two.” 

Sherlock looks up and immediately sets his laptop aside. “Hey.” He pulls John down for a brief peck. “Long day?” 

John smiles. “Nah, not too bad.” He glances at Rosie, who’s still fixated on her screen. “What’s up?”

She glances at him to make a face of distaste before going back to typing. “Ugh. Homework.” 

“Ooh no, Christmas is cancelled.” 

Sherlock gives him a playful shove. “Is that as sympathetic as you get?” 

“Almost.” John makes to move away and just about dodges Rosie’s attempt at tripping him up. “Oi. Just going for a shower, I’ll be right back.” 

In the bathroom, John stalls at putting on the water. He can hear Rosie and Sherlock’s voice drifting down the hall:

“So, what do you have to do?” 

“Write a sonnet.” 

“A sonnet?”

“Yeah. It’s a fourteen-line-”

“I _know_ what a sonnet is.”

“I just don’t know what to write.” 

“Once more unto the breech-” 

“Henry V? Dad, that’s not a sonnet.” 

“So? Just write that, they’ll probably mark you higher.” 

“… You want me to copy Shakespeare and send it to my English teacher? My _English teacher_. Balance of probability: she’d really, _really_ notice and fail me.”

“Fair point.” 

John stifles a laugh. He is just about to actually turn the shower on when he hears Sherlock’s voice, low and careful, slightly teasing and fond.

“I know _someone_ who could help you. He writes excellent poetry.”

“Oh? Who?”

John’s heart immediately leaps to somewhere in his throat. As if Sherlock can sense that alone, he hears his voice stammer and backtrack. “Um- actually- never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“But-”

“Trust me. That was… not good.”

Once John is out of the shower, Sherlock is still in the same position, and Rosie has gone to her room. John taps his foot expectantly. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock does his best impression at typing and doesn’t look at him. But John can see his ears are turning red. “Hmm?” 

John sighs. “You… you read my emails, didn’t you.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. 

Sherlock swallows. “Whatever would give you that impression?”

“Sherlock, please, just tell me the truth.”

Sherlock finally looks up, and slams his laptop shut. “Yes! Alright, I did. I saw them and I shouldn’t have looked and I’m sorry, but they’re _years_ old now and they didn’t appreciate them anyway, you never got an replies-” 

John holds up his hand to stop him. “What?” 

“Oh, don’t play the fool, John. Your _girlfriends_.” 

Oh. _Oh_. John feels like a long waiting lightbulb has finally been illuminated. “I- I think. Sher-I- I think you’re acting on a slight… a slight miscalculation.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

John steels himself. “Sherlock. Those emails… the poetry… it was never addressed to… they were all written about you. _For_ you.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and unfocused all at once. “For- for… _all_ of them?” 

“Yeah. _All_ of them.”

Sherlock is still staring off into the distance. “Those emails… they were... I read them… just before- just before The Woman case.” His voice is very quiet, almost dreamy.

John sighs. “Yes.” 

And Sherlock is looking at him directly now. “You mean to tell me you were writing poetry… you were writing _me_ poetry. At the very _least_ since 2011.”

“Um- wow. When you put it like that- I- well. Yeah. That’s right.” 

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says with great vigor, then flinches automatically as if Rosie is still in the room. He steps forward and grips John’s shoulders. “Fuck, you’re stupid. _I’m_ stupid. _Fuck_.” 

John can’t control his giggles, and he pulls Sherlock in for a long kiss. “I can give you a writing masterclass,” he whispers, only to dissolve back into laughter when Sherlock can only reply: “Since _fucking 2011_ , John!”


	13. That Danielle

Sherlock can feel the argument brewing in the air. He knows it’s nothing serious, though, so he’s quite happy continuing to drink his tea as his eyes swivel back and forth between Rosie and John. It’s like a very entertaining tennis match. 

“But I won’t be late-” 

“Your definition of ‘not late’ is _late_. Besides, you’ve already told the lads at the café that-”

“I’m not helping out ‘till noon. _Noon._ And it’s a Sunday, they’re always dead then, it’s just the little old dears going in with-” 

“Now, Rosie, listen, you need to take some-”

_Personal responsibility_ , Sherlock finishes in his head but Rosie’s words are quicker: “Personal responsibility, yeah, I know, John, I _am!_ ” 

_Risky move_ , Sherlock evaluates as John bristles and draws himself up to his full height. “I’m your father, don’t call me ‘John.’”

Rosie grins, eyes flashing. “Okay. Fine, then.” And Sherlock sees it coming as she readies her mock salute: “John Watson, fifth Northumberland fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s _bloody_ hospital!”

Sherlock chokes on his tea. Her tone is pitch-perfect. By the time his coughs are controlled, John’s glaring at _him_ now, which just makes Sherlock laugh all the more. 

“What?” Sherlock says. “It was excellent timing. I applaud the spectacle.”

Rosie winks. “Thanks.” 

Before John can interject, Sherlock decides he’d better swoop in and salvage something. He turns to Rosie and tries to confirm his suspicions. “Who’s having pre-drinks, then?”

An unmistakable blush glows on Rosie’s cheeks. _Bingo._  “Danielle.” 

Sherlock raises a knowing eyebrow at John, and sees him visibly calming. But, John still asks, “Sorry, who’s Danielle?” and Sherlock can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Oh, John, do keep up, dear. Danielle who sits behind her in history, who’s always the striker in football.” He nods at Rosie. “That Danielle?”

_Definitely_ blushing, then. “There’s only one Danielle,” she replies.

John sighs. “Oh God. Fine, fine, _go_. Just make sure you’re up in time for the café.” 

Rosie bounds across and kisses John’s cheek. “Thanks, _Dad_ ,” she says pointedly, and rushes off in a whirlwind to fetch her purse. 

Sherlock chuckles at how stunned John looks. “Have you recovered, John?” 

John starts laughing. “She’s like a miniature Harry, I swear. It’s _scary._ ”  

A clattering of heels. “Byeeeeee!” Rosie calls out, all sing-song and joyous. 

Sherlock dashes out to the stairs before she can go out of the door. “Rosie!” he calls, reaching into his pocket. 

She turns and he throws her the spare keys. “Be sensible. And don’t wake your Dad up coming in or he might actually murder me.”

Her face softens and she gives a cheery little wave. “Cheers, Billy!”

Sherlock splutters, but she’s already off and away. He hears John’s cackle of laughter, and turns to run at him: “Come here and I’ll really give you something to laugh about!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by culverton's and ambiguous-ly-bee's posts! http://culverton.tumblr.com/post/156439424910/ambiguous-ly-bee-culverton-culverton-stop


	14. Calling For You

Rosie is almost screaming with the force of her cries. John winces and mentally apologises to Mrs Hudson over and over again.

“Come on, sweetheart, you’re going to make yourself hoarse,” John murmurs, rocking her persistently. 

She squirms stubbornly in his grip, her little legs starting to kick. John tries to shush her: “There, now, it’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t need to fight, ssh, ssh…” But she won’t give in, she’s still staring at Sherlock’s empty chair and bawling. 

“I know,” John sighs, “I know, it doesn’t feel right, I know, but please, you’ve got to sleep, sleep, _sleep_ , ssh….”

He feels his phone buzz, and his heart leaps. With one hand, he manages to fish it out of his pocket and read the message:

_In taxi on way home. Sorry I’m late. S xxx_

John breathes out and sits in his chair, knees weak with relief. “There now, Rosie, he’ll be back soon, ‘kay?” He keeps on cuddling her, and manages to text back:

_That’s okay. Someone’s crying for you right now. Tricky one? :) x_

A reply, almost immediately:

_I’m a bit_

John sucks in a painful inhale. His fingers go flying:

_A bit what? Sherlock?_

But he can see on the screen that Sherlock is already typing again. Then:

_Oopsie, sorry. Sent too soon. I meant a bit bruised. Nothing major. Difficult suspect. xxx_

Before John can reply, he hears a car pulling up outside. His phone vibrates one last time:

_Home. Can’t wait to see you. <3_ 

And despite the tinge of worry, John can’t help but smile, because it truly is just like Sherlock to send a text when he’s 30 seconds away. He hears him bounding up the stairs, three at a time, and Rosie lets out the biggest yell of the night. 

The door opens. “Oh, oh, oh,” Sherlock says, out of breath, his voice all soft and gentle concern. “That won’t do, will it? Oh, darling, I’m sorry.”  

John goes to hand Rosie over into Sherlock’s outstretched arms, but he freezes at the sight of Sherlock’s black eye. “Ooh, Sherlock. I’ll get some ice.”

Sherlock waves him off. “I’ve already done that.”

“Yeah, but you’re meant to keep that up for the first twenty four-”

_“Daddy!”_

Sherlock blinks as Rosie continues to whine. “Well, she’s calling for _you_.” 

John can’t stop smiling, overwhelmed and happy and grateful all at once. “Sherlock. Make a deduction.” 

He puts Rosie into Sherlock’s waiting arms and she immediately settles. She looks up at Sherlock, intent and certain: “Daddy. Daddy.” 

Sherlock is still instinctively rocking her, but a little hiss of air escapes him. His lips tremble a little before he finds the words: “But, I’m- I’m not-” 

John reaches forward and cups his cheek, careful to avoid the black eye. “Of course you are, Sherlock. Of course.” 

He kisses him, and feels a distinct trail of wetness run down his cheek. John pulls back and shakes his head. “None of that,” he says, so fond. “Sit down with her, I’ll get you some ice.”


	15. In A Film

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of 'Chapter 13: That Danielle.'

John knows immediately that something is wrong just by the way Rosie is making tea. And it’s _Rosie_ , that job is always reserved for Sherlock.

Slam. Slam. _Slam_. Mrs Hudson has a new rival in passive aggressive tea-making. John tentatively heads to the kitchen. Rosie is filling up the teapot while Sherlock stands and watches. He looks up at John and silently puts a finger to his lips.

Rosie sighs, her back to them both. “I know you’re there, Dad. Two sugars, yeah?” 

“Um-” John sits down at the table. “Okay. Thanks, love.” 

But the tea never does get poured. Rosie’s phone rings, loud and cutting, and she jumps, hot water spilling everywhere.

Sherlock moves forward. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”

“I’m _fine_.”

Her phone rings repeatedly. There’s a slight reprieve of silence before it starts again. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Maybe- Rosie… maybe you should answer that.” He goes to touch her shoulder, but she jerks away, pulling out her phone and slamming it on the table.

“I _said_ I don’t want to talk about it, alright? _Jesus!_ ”

John sits up straighter. “Don’t speak to Sherlock like that.” 

But Sherlock just shakes his head at him. And then he sees Rosie’s eyes are full of tears.

“Just. Just leave it.”

She leaves for her room. John looks at Sherlock, and his heart breaks at his expression: wrong-footed, _did I do it wrong…?_

“Sit down,” John says. “I’ll get your tea.”

The phone keeps on chiming. Sherlock’s fingers twitch. 

“Don’t,” John says. “We can’t invade her privacy.” 

“I know, I know.” The phone rings one more time and Sherlock puts his head in his hands, exclaiming, “Oh God, this is _torture!_ ”

John suppresses a laugh and sets down their tea. “What?”

“I feel like I’m in a bloody film,” Sherlock groans.

“Fill me in?”

“Oh, she’s asked out that Danielle girl and apparently she replied an unequivocal no which I find _highly_ unlikely considering past events, but I can’t just _tell_ her that, because that’s insensitive but-oh, _John!_ It’s so obvious that there’s been some misunderstanding, but she’s too busy being-”

As if on cue, the phone chimes again.

Sherlock’s hands move to cover his face. “I’m not even looking at the screen and I can tell they’re all texts from Danielle. Honestly, John, we were _never_ this bad at communi-”

“I thought you had sex with Janine. And Irene Adler,” John reminds him.

Sherlock moves his hands away from his face and just stares at him. “You’re right, we’re hopeless.”

They jump at a knock on the door. Sherlock starts to laugh, almost hysterically. “Oh, no, this is too good. I bet you 50 quid that’s her. No, don’t open the door yet, I’ll put the Love Actually soundtrack on for full effect-” 

But Rosie has already rushed out of her own room. 


	16. Be More Careful

The world is wrapped in cotton wool. Or… or maybe he is the cotton wool. It’s too difficult to tell.

“Sherlock? I’m here, it’s okay.”

Sherlock blinks and blinks and eventually sees a very fuzzy John shaped figure in front of him. “Where…John. Where are we?”

The shape focuses a little more enough to see John’s wry smile. “Our second home,” he replies.

Sherlock gasps. “We- we have two houses?”

John snorts. “No, you idiot- hospital, you’re in hospital.”

“Oh.”

John reaches for Sherlock’s hand and presses it to his lips. It feels oddly numb on the cotton wool cloud, but Sherlock still appreciates the gesture.

“Stop making me laugh,” John says. “I’m meant to be angry with you.”

Sherlock makes a face. “Doesn’t sound right.”

“No, I think that’s a perfectly reasonable reaction. Actually.”

Sherlock wishes his head wasn’t so damned heavy. He needs brain power to speak to John properly, don’t these hospital fools know that?

John sighs. “I know- I know you’re not doing this deliberately, okay? But… but don’t-” John works his jaw, and Sherlock is horrified to see tears building in his eyes. “Please don’t put this on me every time. I hate… just waiting for you to wake up. I hate this place. Please, Sherlock, be more careful.”

Sherlock sits up. He has a plan. “S'let’s go now,” he says, trying to force the slur out of his words by sheer will alone.

John giggles a little and a tiny bit of his tears escape. “What? Sherlock, you can’t just-”

“You hate… hospitals. Let’s… go home, John?”

John scoffs with an ever so sweet smile. “Yeah, that’s not happening tonight, love. You’re falling asleep.”

“No I’m…”

But as he’s replying, John leans over to gently push him back into bed. His limbs are like jelly.

“The only thing I want right now is for you to get some rest.”

John kisses Sherlock’s forehead and he automatically feels his eyes begin to droop. Sneaky. He would protest at how John did that on purpose but… too…tiring…

“No more hospital, John. Pro…promise,” He yawns and John says:

“You can’t promise that. Just… Just watch yourself, okay? You matter.”

John’s voice sounds very far away, like from a badly tuned radio. Maybe Mrs Hudson should…fix…

“I love you. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”


	17. The Best Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for their Anniversary on 29th January, 2017.

It was the end of a particularly long case- nothing too serious, just draining. Sherlock had barely slept during those three days, just catching light dozes in taxis. And so, when they’d finally headed home, Sherlock collapsed into bed, already out cold by the time his head hit the pillow.

Now, he feels John stir beside him. Bless him, he’s trying to be so quiet, trying not to wake him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock says, turning towards the sound. If John is getting up, he should join him.

A firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “No no no, have a lie in, okay? I’ll only be an hour or so.” A kiss to his hair, and Sherlock feels a fresh wave of tiredness overcome him.

An hour…? Oh… café with Harry, John had written it on the… on the… 

And when he next wakes, it’s well past noon. Sherlock sits up in bed and yawns. Since John still isn’t here, he might as well go through his case inbox. He brings the laptop through to the kitchen and puts the kettle on for some tea. 

Once the laptop screen lights up, the sight of John’s blog welcomes him. Sherlock smiles. No need for anyone to know that it’s been set as his home page for… for a good while. 

Then he glances down, and spots today’s date. 

_29th of January._

Sherlock considers restarting the laptop, just in case he’s misread it. But no, the date still stands.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit shit shit _shit_.”

Almost one o’clock now, and John will be back soon and oh God, he hasn’t done _anything_ , no effort at all, quick quick quick- 

The door opens and Sherlock jumps. He’s in the middle of clearing up the bookcase that he’s hardly looked at. Pathetic, but the only thing he could think of. 

John considers him, grinning yet confused. “Um. Hello? What are you doing?” 

Sherlock feels his palms sweating. Better to come clean out with it. “I- I forgot the date, I’m sorry, I’ll- I’ll do- _something_ but-”

John blinks. “The… date?” And then something must click for him.  _“Oh,”_ he says.

Sherlock resists the temptation to wring his hands, but _why_ is John still smiling?

“I’m sorry, I’ll-”

John steps forward and guides Sherlock away from the bookcase. “Sherlock,” he says, with feeling, “I wasn’t expecting you to do anything. You’ve run yourself ragged with that case, you’re still bloody shattered, you deserve some time-” 

He stops as Sherlock groans in frustration at himself. “It’s not about _me_ , John.”

John steps back, and for a moment, Sherlock is afraid he’s ruined everything. But then he realises John is only going into the kitchen to retrieve Sherlock’s laptop.

John swallows, then nods to himself as if making a decision. “Here- just- just let me show you something.”

He taps something out on the keyboard, then indicates for Sherlock to take a seat in his armchair. Sherlock does so, and John hands him the laptop. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

Sherlock gapes at the screen. It’s showing him John’s blog, yes, but… but. There’s a draft post that’s never been published. How, _how_ could he not have noticed this?

_29th-30th January. The Best Meeting._

_Probably shouldn’t be writing when I’ve had wine but, to hell with it. Won’t publish this. [BIG SELF REMINDER: DON’T PUBLISH THIS YOU IDIOT!]_

_Can’t believe I met him just like that. Feels stupid but great. Like I’m in a film. Feel like I’ve known him my whole life? Sher-lock- Sher-lock sounds great to say._

_Don’t even need my crutch!! HOW?? Madman. Genius. Brilliant._

_That run around London… best night of my life. Best best **best**. Cracking Chinese. Great taste. Should… we should try ALL the restaurants ever. _

_So strange. I had no-one… now it feels like. feels like_

_Feels like I have someone._

_Thank you Sherlock Holmes, you beautiful bastard._

Sherlock blinks and blinks and blinks. “John!” he calls, and he can’t help his voice from breaking. John returns from the kitchen, mobile in hand. Sherlock stands and pulls him into a tight hug. 

“Meeting you,” John murmurs into his neck. “Meeting you was… was the _best_ thing that’s ever happened to me.”

_“John.”_

A tender kiss. “Booked Angelos for eight, alright? Now get some more sleep, I know you’re still knackered.”

Sherlock feels like he’s walking on air. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank _you_.”


	18. A Slip

John was trying to reach Rosie’s rattle, sitting on the top of Sherlock’s bookcase. Bloody tall thing. Not for the first time, John wished he was wearing stilts. 

Looking back on it, he really didn’t think it through. But Rosie was bawling in her room and Sherlock was fixing Mrs Hudson’s wifi and it felt like that rattle would fix the whole damned-

His foot slipped on the shelf and then, like he was looking into a far too late crystal ball, John knew what was about to happen. He braced himself for the fall, saw the bookshelf teeter and follow him, quickly rolled over before-

Ow. _Ow._ Bugger ow _shit_.

Now, John just lies there, contemplating his own stupidity and gritting his teeth at the increase in Rosie’s shrill cries. Downstairs, he hears a distinct thump. Then, rapid footsteps, coming upstairs to-

“John! Christ, John, are you alright-”

John blinks as Sherlock comes into view. Sherlock grunts, and moves the bookcase off him. He glances at the rattle on the floor, and gasps a little. “Oh God. Sorry, I forgot I’d left it there-” 

John can’t hold it back, spitting it out between the pain. “My. _Hand_.” 

Sherlock blinks. John sees the fear and panic temporarily cloud his eyes. But then, there’s a sudden clearness, a forced calmness. “Right. Here’s what’s going to happen. Mrs Hudson is going to watch Rosie, and you and I are going to A & E and it’s going to be fine.” 

“It’s a fracture, a bloody fracture, I already _know,_ I’m going to have to wait 3 hours just to have some little sh-”

But Sherlock is carefully helping him stand, gently guiding him to the door. “Yes, you’re an excellent Doctor,” he says, sincerely and placating. “Off we go, then.”

John has never loathed having a cast more in his life. He storms inside, denied even of slamming the door. 

“Look, at least it’s not your writing hand,” Sherlock says quietly. 

John closes his eyes. “That’s not the problem. How am I- how am I going to do-”

“Things can be done one-handed, John.”

“For fuck’s sake, I know, but _I’ve_ never-”

“And I have two hands,” Sherlock interrupts. “We’ll manage.”

And so they do. Sherlock is a marvel, repeatedly insisting that he change Rosie’s nappies; throwing that rattle to John whenever he needs it, cheering whenever John catches it deftly; holding his wrist out so John can test whether the milk is the right temperature.

And then one night, John wakes to the sound of Rosie crying. He shifts to turn off the baby monitor, then frowns when he finds it isn’t there.

The creaking of floorboards. A hushed voice: “Shh, shh, there now, surely it can’t be as bad as all that? Hmm? Alright, you tell me about it, then, shh…”

John stands and follows Sherlock’s voice. He finds him sitting on the couch, baby monitor turned off on the floor. Rosie is finally quieting, tucked safely against Sherlock’s chest.

“Hi,” John says, and Sherlock looks up at him with a soft and sleepy smile.

“She was just telling me a story, weren’t you?” he whispers. “Don’t know if she got to the end, though.” 

John steps forward. He feels like he’s watching himself distantly, already knowing what his next move will be. “Sherlock, all you’ve done… thank you.” 

Sherlock gives a tiny shrug. “It’s no-”

And John moves closer. “No, really, listen,” he says. “ _Thank you_.”

“Oh. Well, you’re-”

John bends down. “Shh.”

And finally, finally, he kisses Sherlock Holmes. He pulls back, noticing that Sherlock’s breathing isn’t very regular. 

Sherlock swallows. “Um. Can you fracture your hand more often?”

John laughs silently, careful not to wake Rosie. “Cheeky.”


	19. Hoopkins Meet Cute

Molly’s folders are stacked impossibly high, but no time to worry about that now- hurry hurry, take your phone out, get that draft ready, open the double doors and-

Her folders cascade to the ground in an impressive Avalanche, papers fluttering everywhere. But Molly is much more concerned that she has bumped into an actual person:

“Oh God! I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

The girl nods and laughs, a charming bell of a laugh. “Yeah, yeah- my fault, I wasn’t looking-”

“No, no, neither was I. Sorry, sorry again, I-”

Once more she is distracted, and as she reaches for a particular piece of paper, Molly realises too late that she’s actually reached for the girl’s hand. She blushes and makes to pull away: “Oh-oopsie-”

But the girl doesn’t pull away. Instead she looks up with a lingering smile, holds Molly’s hand and turns it into a casual handshake.

“Stella Hopkins.”

“Oh-um. I’m Molly. Molly Hooper.”

Stella stands and hands her the remaining folders. “Pleasure, Molly.”

Molly smiles, and feels her heart speed up a little. “Well, I’d better-nice to-”

She’s halfway down the corridor when Stella calls: “Molly!”

She turns to see Stella holding her phone with a grin. “Won’t get very far without that,” she teases, and she chucks it over.

Molly is quietly impressed with herself that she manages to catch it.

In the lab, she finally puts those folders down and sees she has 1 new text:

Hey, nice to meet you- again! Sorry if this is a bit forward but I’d love to get to know you more. Fancy a drink sometime? -S x

It takes all of Molly’s self control to not reply with a million smiley emojis.


	20. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ficlet for their anniversary, written on 29th January, 2017.

“You forgot the date,” Sherlock tells him. It’s not accusatory, not at all- it’s said all soft and warm, with Sherlock looking up at him coyly, lashes almost fluttering. 

John laughs. He loves when he knows that he has well and truly surprised Sherlock Holmes. 

“No, _you_ did,” John says, but he honestly doesn’t mind. He slides the present across the table, and Sherlock’s jaw actually drops a little. 

“What’s this?” he asks.

And oh, yes, a _definite_ surprise, after all. John smiles. “Open it and see.” 

Sherlock does so. His hands tremble a little as he flicks through the book: a photograph album. Sneaky candids taken on cases; jokey selfies from nights out; them both laughing fit to burst during Bond night. _A record of our time together._  

“I thought you didn’t like the fuss of developing photos?” Sherlock says. His voice is hushed.

John shrugs. “Simple. I lied.” He grins as Sherlock giggles, in awe at the unexpectedness of it all. “But, you _did_ forget,” John smirks, with a wink.

Sherlock’s smile only grows. “No, I didn’t.”

“Oh? Says who?”

And then, he almost hears the reply before Sherlock’s even said it: “Says the man at the door.”

And, right on cue: a knock. 

John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock just gestures downstairs with the most endearing grin.

And so, John ends up opening the door to Angelo, handing him the most ridiculously large chocolate cake. 

“On the house for you, and for your date,” Angelo says, like the cat who’s got the cream.

Speechless, John hurries upstairs and puts the cake on the table. 

“You,” he kisses Sherlock, “utter,” another kiss, “romantic,” and one more for luck, “sod.” 

Sherlock smiles at every kiss. “Hmm, I could never forget, John.”


	21. Power Cut

It really is a proper stormy night. John peeks out of the window, watching the rain hammer down outside. It does depend what mood he’s in of course, but right now, he’s enjoying the atmosphere.

That is, until Sherlock darts up from behind and shuts the curtains.

John turns. “Oi, what was that for?”

But Sherlock is already away from him, sitting on the couch with his knees clutched to his chest. John begins to make some deductions.

Above them, the living room light starts to flicker ominously. Sherlock glares at it but John can see his eyes are far too wide for it just to be out of anger.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock tells the light before they’re plunged into utter darkness.

John hears Sherlock’s breathing rattle. He knows this is another dreaded souvenir from Sherlock’s “post-fall” days. So, he takes his time, slowly sitting down on the couch next to Sherlock. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock makes a strangled high pitched noise.

“Shh, it’s only me.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, just breathes sharply in and out.

John squeezes Sherlock’s knee gently. “Sometimes… sometimes my mum would forget to pay the electricity bill.”

Even in the dark, John feels Sherlock’s gaze on him. “Oh?” he says. Ah, that’s the ticket, much less panicked.

“Well, she didn’t forget, not really. I knew she was just saving face.” John clears his throat. It’s odd, talking about her suddenly, and there’s still that residual ache of buried grief in his chest. “Anyway, do you know what helped me and Harry?”

He hears Sherlock shake his head and he smiles. “Well, if you close your eyes, the darkness is the same either way.”

Sherlock laughs. His voice is still wavering a little but it sounds much stronger. “And that really helped, did it?”

“Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it- that’s what mum would say, anyway.”

John reaches across and finds Sherlock’s face, his hand brushing across his cheek. He gently hovers over Sherlock’s eyes. “Try it, if you want.”

Sherlock tilts his head back against the couch. John knows he’s closed his eyes, and counts it as a victory. “Hmm, alright. And how did you and Harry pass the time?”

“Eye spy,” John replies drily, and delights in the terrific snort he gets out of Sherlock.

There’s a lull in conversation, and John keeps an eye (ha) on Sherlock’s breathing. Slowly but surely evening out.

Sherlock tilts to the side and John takes his cue, moving so Sherlock can lie, head on John’s chest.

“You… you never talk about your mum,” Sherlock says. His voice is incredibly careful.

John sighs. “No. She… she would have loved you, Sherlock.”

He feels Sherlock’s fingers interlock with his own and squeeze. “I would’ve been honoured to meet her,” he says. There’s a slight telling slur to his words and John smiles, and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head.

“I can…maybe text Harry, she has all the old photos. Oh god, and video tapes.”

He feels Sherlock’s body totally relax against him. “Mmm, yeah…after the storm?”

“After the storm,” John agrees and he holds Sherlock safe, giving him the quiet and space to nod off.


	22. A Good Day

Mycroft knows his flat has been broken into before he reaches the door. It doesn’t require much brain-work, however: he can see the light underneath the crack in the door. He pauses, keys in hand, and listens. 

And then, the unexpected: singing. A very familiar voice.

_“That’s what my heart yearns for now- love and priiiiide.”_

Mycroft blinks. A good day, then. A very _very_ good day. They are so rare. 

He needn’t bother using his keys, he knows Sherlock will have left the entire flat unlocked as a snub against him. He doesn’t mind, not really. 

He hears the sound of the shower running and he could almost weep for joy. An excellent day. He knocks on the bathroom door. “Sherlock?” 

The water switches off. “What?” 

“Thought you had uni?” 

“Finished early.”

And, fair enough, there’s still the possibility he _could_ be lying. But, for once, Mycroft can hear the sincerity in his voice- _a natural high_. 

“Are you staying overnight?”

He doesn’t want to push, leaves it open for Sherlock- but he still privately realises why Sherlock has come. Warding off a potential future danger night. 

A pause. And then, the water is turned back on again. “Yeah, okay.”

Mycroft smiles at the forced nonchalance. He goes to check if he has any biscuits in.


	23. Asking & Dancing

John watches as Sherlock ambles over to the laptop, his fingers fumbling as he types on the keyboard. It’s become a sort of habit for him to do this, get some violin music on whenever he’s too slow and sleepy with wine. 

The music starts and Sherlock straightens up, his body swaying a little in time to the music. And suddenly, John thinks of the last time they were so close and that music played, when everything felt tense and awful and wrong:

_“So, just… I’ll play a recording here. And… And obviously the height difference is a bit-um-and I’m not Mary but. But, we’ll manage. And, one, two, three…”_

 And still, Sherlock smiled through it. And still, Sherlock taught John how to dance. 

John stands and taps Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock turns and kisses him, his body still swaying.

John laughs into the kiss: “Are you dancing?”

Sherlock pulls away to look at him, smiling. “Are you asking?” he whispers.

Another laugh, and John holds out his hand. “I’m asking.” 

Sherlock kisses him again then takes John’s hand. “Then I’m dancing.” 

And it’s nothing like before, no formal tradition and rules. It’s wonderful. John even dips Sherlock- he means it as a joke, to make Sherlock laugh, but he is utterly enchanted by Sherlock’s reaction: he gasps, eyes mesmerized.

“ _John_. You’re- you’re _very_ good.” 

John pulls him up again. “Nah. You’re just drunk.”

“My being mildly to moderately _tipsy_ has nothing to do with my appreciation for your dancing skills, thank you very much.” 

John snorts. He loves Sherlock like this: just on the right side of drunk, and waxing lyrical. 

“Well,” he says. “I had a _very_ good, _very_ handsome teacher.”

Sherlock pulls him in for another kiss.


	24. Change of Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to 'A Place For Cake': http://archiveofourown.org/works/9272132

John can feel Sherlock’s lips just brushing against his hair, and vaguely wonders if he is in fact dreaming. But no, no time to pinch himself, he doesn’t want to break it, ruin this moment, like he has so many times before. 

It feels so strange just letting himself cry like this. It doesn’t even feel like a conscious decision, just a wall that has finally collapsed, and John doesn’t have the energy to build it back up again. It’s over, now. Thank God. 

He feels his breath catch sharply on his sobs, his chest tight. And then he feels Sherlock’s own chest move against him as he takes big slow, deliberate breaths. John copies, silently, overwhelmingly grateful. 

Eventually, eventually, the cries fade away. John swallows, and screws up his eyes, red hot embarrassment setting in. He moves his head off Sherlock’s chest and sniffs. He steps back a little and stumbles, and Sherlock’s warm hand still on his neck squeezes, a gentle warm pressure.

“You’re alright,” Sherlock says, barely a murmur. “I’ve g-I’m…”

“S-sorry. Ruined your shirt,” John interrupts, and Jesus, this is _mortifying._

But Sherlock just blinks, then gives a small smile. “Oh. That’s okay. Goes with the stubble.” 

John laughs, surprising himself. “S’a bit more than stubble.” He steps back from Sherlock completely. Sherlock’s arms fall to his side, and John wants nothing more than to move forward again, and hold-

“Just- give us a minute. Is- is that okay?”

Sherlock smiles again, but John notices how he falters, just a little. “Of course, John.”

John washes his face in the bathroom, pressing cold hands to his eyes. He takes the time to just _breathe_. Then, he looks in the mirror. Better.

His phone chimes, and he starts. Molly:

_Sorry, running late! I’ll be there asap! xoxo_

John texts back immediately:

_No worries. Actually, change of plan: do you want to meet us at Peggy Porschen’s?_

_The cake place? Why? xoxo_

John laughs at himself, still dismayed at not really knowing the date of Sherlock’s birthday.

_It’s only Himself’s birthday. Thought it’d be nice to treat him._

Molly just replies:

_Aww :) See you there! xoxo_

John chuckles again, then goes back to the living room. Sherlock is still standing in the same spot and he looks at John carefully, his eyes softening, and John feels his heart quickening oh so slightly.

“Grab your coat, Sherlock,” he says. _You’ve pulled_ his mind finishes, and feels his ears turn pink.

“What?” Sherlock says. Bless him, he is well and truly baffled.

“Texted Molly. We’re going to get some cake.”

Sherlock blinks again, and John sees a bashful smile creeping up onto his lips. “Cake?”

“It’s your bloody birthday, you’ve got to have cake.”

Sherlock laughs. “Solid reasoning.” And then: “John I-”

“Yeah?”

“…Thank you.”

He’s looking at John, eyes full of pride John does not think he deserves. And he knows Sherlock is not just talking about the cake.


	25. Always There

It’s Uncle Rudy’s 50th birthday and everything is too loud. 

Of course, Mummy had made sure they were both in bed well before anyone had arrived. But the door has been left open the tiniest crack, and Mycroft wakes to the sound of chattering and music. He puts his hands over his ears and tries his best to go back to sleep.

That plan soon fails as he hears it: faint, tiny cries, coming from down the hallway. His little brother’s room. 

Mycroft sits up and thinks. His parents are downstairs- odds are Uncle Rudy’s on his fourth glass of champagne and is showing them how to line-dance, at this point. It’ll certainly be too loud for them to hear something from upstairs.

Which means… which means…

Mycroft is tiptoeing down the hall before he has properly made the decision. He opens the door into the bedroom and closes it- properly, this time. 

Sherlock is wailing in his cot and Mycroft approaches hesitantly. He seems unaware that someone is even in the room, not until Mycroft puts one of his hands through the bars of the cot. He stops abruptly mid-cry, and stares up at him.

Mycroft tilts his head. “Sorry. I’m not Mummy.”

Sherlock just blinks. He reaches out for Mycroft’s hand so Mycroft moves it closer. He isn’t that surprised when Sherlock’s hand wraps around his finger- he heard Mummy and Daddy say it was a reflex- but, still. It’s something. 

“I know it’s too noisy,” he says. Sherlock cries have almost disappeared, he seems far too preoccupied with staring up at him. “They’ll be gone soon. Mummy pre-ordered taxis.” 

He pretends that Sherlock can understand a word he’s saying. 

“It’ll be more fun when you can talk back,” he tells him. “No offence, but it’s sort of boring right now.” The hand around his finger squeezes once, and Mycroft giggles. “I didn’t say _you_ were boring. Just the… the situation.”

Sherlock’s eyes are already drooping, and Mycroft is instantly proud and protective. He did that! Keeping his hand in the cot, he sits down, keeping watch in case any drunken relatives mistake this room for the toilet. 

“This way, you won’t be alone,” he whispers. But he knows Sherlock is already sleeping. 

Perhaps he wasn’t talking to Sherlock at all.


	26. The Thing With Peas

“This makes no _sense_ ,” Sherlock whines.

John can’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? It makes perfect sense. No sleep plus jumping in the Thames plus-”

“It was for a _case_.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t change the likelihood of you getting ill, you idiot. The universe isn’t going to be all ‘oh, it was for a _case_ , we’ll let him off, then.’”

“Shut up.”

“Nope. Then you’d be even more bored.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, then reconsiders. “You may have a point there.”

“Ta.”

John’s gaze softens as Sherlock coughs into the crook of his arm. Of course, it’s nothing serious, but it seems wrong for Sherlock to be cooped up, _Sherlock_ , who is usually brimming with life. 

“I can make dinner,” he suggests. “What do you fancy?”

Sherlock fights back another cough, then brightens. “The thing with peas?”

“Oh, the chuck rice and everything from the fridge into a pan and hope it’s edible one.”

“Yup. Special request for it to be fairly edible.”

John chuckles. “I’ll put a word in with the chef.”


	27. Sherlock 'Astaire' Holmes

“I’m _bored._ ” 

Sherlock looks up from the couch and starts laughing. “Well, that won’t do. Find a way to entertain yourself.”

John hits him on the head. “You utter hypocrite.”

But Rosie is still frowning, and Sherlock grins, hoisting himself up. 

“Right, then. What do you want to do, darling?”

Rosie pauses, characteristically thoughtful. Then: “Learn something new.” 

Sherlock almost does a double take. It’s something he would have said, so many years ago. “Alright,” he nods. Then, teasing: “Violin?”

She shakes your head. “I told you, Daddy, it makes my fingers hurt.” 

Sherlock hums. There is a thought at the back of his mind. He could… but no, it was years ago. There’s no way he could… but then, he considers Rosie’s expectant face. Perhaps… “Wait right there,” he says, and dashes to his room.

*

John looks on as Sherlock rushes off with a bemused look. He turns to Rosie who is wearing a matching expression, and he snorts. “Your guess is as good as mine, love.”

Then he hears an odd _clack clack clack_ on the kitchen floor. John stands, and walks over, and sees Sherlock standing there, a little hesitantly, dressed in-

“Sherlock, are they tap shoes?”

Sherlock nods. “Cuban heels.” He does a tiny tap with his toe, and Rosie darts out from behind John, transfixed. Sherlock smiles at her. “Sounds fun, yeah?”

“You never told me you could tap dance.”

Sherlock shrugs, but it is an action that seems over-practiced. “Well, the right-mo-um- _case_ never came up.”

John smiles at him. “Okay. Well, hold on, you need music to do this properly.”

Sherlock steps back a little. “I-I’ve not done it in years, John. So, don’t be ridiculous and expect- oh, I don’t know- Fred Astaire or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John replies absently, preoccupied with typing. The music blares and he turns to see Sherlock frowning. 

“What’s this?”

“Oh, you won’t know it. Some pop song, but someone’s done a tap version.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock takes a beat to listen to the song. Then, he starts out slow taps that gradually build to become faster and faster, until he’s grinning, out of breath a little, humming in time to the song and extending his arms. God, John thinks, he’s _brilliant_. 

Rosie giggles and claps her hand, dancing all around Sherlock and Sherlock still manages to take care not to tread on her socked feet. 

“You like that? Fun, isn’t it?” He scoops her up and bounces her as he dances, and John just watches. Aren’t they magnificent. 

The song ends and Sherlock exhales, face glowing. “I can measure you for shoes, if you want,” he says to Rosie, and she nods enthusiastically, “Yes, yes!” 

They collapse onto the couch and John joins them.

“Nothing serious, though,” Sherlock reassures John, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Just fun.”

John kisses him back. “Alright, Mr Astaire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song John put on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAU8eBek_NU


	28. Brother mine: in earnest

“I need to ask you something.”

“I _was_ talking to the Prime Minister.” 

“…Right.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that’s been your excuse for three consecutive conversations so either you and the PM are _very_ friendly or-” 

“Sherlock, get to the point.”

“So quick to the chase, brother dear. No, ‘how was your day?’, no pleasantr-”

_“Sherlock.”_

“John… John’s moving back in today.”

“I am aware.”

“And… and so is Rosie.”

“Yes, I’d gathered she’s not very equipped to continue the lease on their old house.” 

“Mycroft!”

“… Oh, good lord, you’re in earnest. You are honestly- right, I’ll be 10 minutes.”

*

And then, Mycroft is striding inside the flat and Sherlock flounders: “I’m not ready.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t even ask “For what?” Instead, his eyes flicker around the room for a moment, he takes a breath and: 

“Sherlock, I know there are at least five types of baby food in the cupboards- a tad excessive, mind you- you’ve dumped practically the entire cuddly toy section of Hamleys in your room, and you’ve stacked seven different takeaway menus on John’s armrest. Trust me when I say you are more than prepared.”

And when Sherlock still just gapes helplessly, Mycroft sighs and makes a show of turning off his phone right in front of him. “That’s how sure I am. Considering John is arriving in-” he checks his pocket watch- “approximately 20 minutes, I doubt you’ll be needing to contact me at all for the rest of the day, at the very least.” 

Sherlock finally closes his mouth. Mycroft smiles. “Good luck, brother mine. Not that you’ll need it.” And just like that, he turns to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“Believe it or not, I actually _was_ in a meeting with the Prime Minister.”

As Mycroft’s car drives off, Sherlock sends a quick text to Anthea:

_Tell him thank you. He was unexpectedly helpful.  S_

_Nah, he might die of shock from that compliment.  A_


	29. Taking A Memory

It’s nothing at all, really. But John still notices it.

He’s typing at the table when he spots it- just a paperweight, barely holding down a precarious pile of Sherlock’s papers.

The thing is, it was John’s. It wasn’t anything he’s particularly cared about, especially after- all that. When he was clearing out his things, he’d vaguely noticed it wasn’t there, the tiniest of niggles in the back of his mind that had been drowned out by everything else.

Now, though… John turns his head. Sherlock is sitting in his arm chair, typical prayer like thinking pose, but John can tell he’s only daydreaming.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens one eye. “Hmm?”

Just for fun, just because he can, John throws him the paperweight. Sherlock catches it deftly, both eyes open now, wide awake.

“Where’d you find this?” John asks. “Thought I’d lost it…”

He trails off at Sherlock’s expression: mouth closed, lips pressed tightly, eyes wide and suddenly…sad.

Sherlock clears his throat. “I’m going to bed.

And oh, how John knows avoidance when he sees it. He leans back and glances at the time displayed on the laptop. “It’s not that late,” he says quietly , but Sherlock is already off down the hall.

“I’m tired,” is all he replies.

Ah, John thinks. He gives Sherlock a few minutes breathing space, and then he follows him. Sherlock is in bed, back to the door, back tense. John carefully slides under the covers and presses a light kiss to Sherlock’s back, just so he knows he’s there.

“Hey,” John says, keeping his voice soft. “You don’t have to… We can leave it if…”

He’s still none the wiser as to what’s really wrong, so he keeps his sentences unfinished. But Sherlock saves him from doing anymore, his hand reaches out to John’s and presses the paperweight into his palm. It’s warm.

“I- I took it,” Sherlock says, voice almost a whisper.

John puts the paperweight on his bedside cabinet. “Okay? That’s fine-”

But Sherlock is shaking his head. “No, John. I took it when-”

His breathing catches just the tiniest bit and John places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Thankfully, Sherlock turns to face him, taking a deep breath.

“I took it when… when we were checking the flat for cameras. When-”

His voice dies but John doesn’t need to hear anymore, he knows exactly when Sherlock means. His stomach lurches but he tries not to let it show, focussing on wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

“Why?”

A shaky exhale. “Because I…I knew that- no, no, John, not like that, not everything. I just…” A swallow. “I knew Lestrade was coming. God, I felt sick, I- I knew…Well, the thing was, I didn’t know when I’d be back in the flat.”

“Oh,” John says. He doesn’t think he can trust his voice to say anything else, but Sherlock’s still going, a dam broken:

“Knew I couldn’t risk taking something obvious, like a photo or-or-you’d notice. I just knew I needed a-a-something… I slipped it in my coat pocket just before Lestrade-

He breaks off again, and John sees Sherlock’s hands clutched together, as if he can still feel the handcuffs on his wrists.

"Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks at him, and John pulls him closer. He can feel Sherlock’s back jump just a little under his fingertips.

“Thank you, Sherlock. For- for letting me know.”

Sherlock breathes out, finally long and smooth and steady. And John knows that while it was a lie before, Sherlock is truly tired now. He stays with him, slowly stroking his back until, little by little, he feels Sherlock’s whole body relaxing in sleep. He waits, then kisses him goodnight, going to set up the table for breakfast the next day.

The paperweight stays on the cabinet.


	30. She likes tequila

Stella is leaning forward, squeezing Molly’s arm, and for one moment Molly thinks she’s going in for a kiss and that’s- great, actually. Great decision, yes please and-

“Tell me after,” Stella slurs just a bit, and hiccoughs. “’M going to the loo.”

And the disappointment on Molly’s face must show because Stella winks at her (excellent!) and adds, “I’ll only be tick! Get some more drinks, the ones with the cute umbrellas.”

“Yes!” Molly says, rather loudly. “Okay!”

And Stella is gone. It’s only then that Molly replays her words and realises that she must be in some sort of bar. She fumbles with her phone, and just about manages to text:

_**wHere am I??! xoxo** _

Immediately, dots indicating a response being typed pop up:

_…Wrong number? -S_

**_NO youre edecibe no i mean a detective youll knowwe_ **

_Oh you’re having a VERY good night. John says turn on your GPS? -S_

**_???????_ **

_Never mind. Case solved._

What follows is a google maps attachment of her location with the caption:  _‘John and I know this one really well. Good music.’_

Then there’s another little ping, and Molly frowns, screen wavering in front of her. It’s an online banking notification:

_Transfer to your account: £20. Note: Stella likes tequila. Have fun! :) S & J_

“Aaaaand I’m back. You alright, did you get the drinks?”

Molly blinks and slowly pockets her phone. The lights of the club sparkle in Stella’s eyes. 

“No,” she says firmly. “Let’s dance first.”

And she’s leaning over and tugging Stella by the wrists and Stella is laughing and laughing as they barge onto the dance floor. Stella does the macarena and Molly ends up in a spectacular giggle fit, until the song suddenly changes to something much slower.

Stella’s eyes flicker to Molly’s lips. She pulls Molly close.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” she whispers.

Molly’s heart skips and skips. 

“Then get the hell on with it,” she says, and closes the gap, and Stella’s lips are on hers, and the entire dance floor melts into the background.


	31. Pet Names

“Darling” is the most common one. John hears it every morning, when Sherlock tiptoes up to Rosie’s room: “Good morning, my darling. And how _are_ we today?”

“Sweetheart” is said often, too, when she’s beginning to walk and Sherlock’s hands will hover around her- not touching, but a ready support just in case: “Watch yourself there, sweetheart. Well done.”

“Rascal” is John’s particular favourite- always said with a laugh, even if Rosie has interrupted some vital experiment. 

John doesn’t tell Sherlock why he almost double takes every time he hears some pet name, doesn’t mention that he never heard these types of things when growing up.

But he thinks Sherlock, in that quiet, caring way of his, already knows. Sometimes, John will hear a persistent “Darling”, and look up, expecting Rosie to be out of sorts. But then, it’s only Sherlock, handing him over a cup of tea.

“I was talking to you, my darling idiot,” Sherlock says with a wink, and John catches their laughter between their lips as he leans in for a kiss.


	32. Sharing Pasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can be viewed as a sequel to 'Chapter 21: A Power Cut.'

Sherlock knows John’s mother is dead. He doesn’t know how or when, or if his father is still alive or not- if so, presumably very estranged. There are gaps in John Watson’s life that Sherlock does not know how to fill, but he doesn’t want to- not until John’s ready, that is.

The first time John gives him a little window into his past, Sherlock is completely taken. He is making tea, and has turned on the radio (Radio 2, he thinks it was on, John’s default) and is vaguely humming along to whatever song is playing. 

He turns to give a cup to John and is astonished. John is leaning on the counter, hand covering his mouth, silent tears just starting to fall. 

“John!” He nearly spills the tea over his hand. “John, what’s wrong?”

John jumps and his hand moves from his mouth to touch his cheek. Of course, it comes away wet, but John seems surprised by his own tears. 

“Oh-um. Sorry. That- don’t know where that came from.” He pauses, breathes out, and obviously forces a smile to reassure him. “It… my mum loved this song.” And he says it so quietly, Sherlock could almost swear he hadn’t heard anything at all. He lets himself focus on the music.

 _“When I grew up, and fell in love, I asked my sweetheart ‘What lies ahead….?’”_  

Sherlock considers John over his own mug of tea, and passes John’s to him. His tears have largely dried, and he’s now listening to the song with a very faint smile. Sherlock turns up the volume, and lets it all be, for now.

He can sense it, this quiet yet burning need John has to say… something. He doesn’t want to pry, and he definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t want to accidentally do it all wrong and cause John to completely clam up. 

So, instead, he offers John a part of his past like an anchor. During dinner, he puts on a deliberately ‘80′s themed playlist. When the fourth song starts to play, Sherlock casually mentions, “Mummy always put this one on when we had parties.”

John pauses, fork of spaghetti half way to his mouth. He grins. “Diana Ross? Really?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes. Why not?”

John laughs. “Nothing. I dunno, I still half expect them to secretly be the Adams family or something. Still can’t believe they don’t have some dusty old grand piano- they’re letting the cliché down.”

Sherlock stops himself from asking who exactly are the Adams family. “Sorry, afraid we’re all too ordinary.”

The wine with dinner has relaxed him so when the chorus kicks in, Sherlock clears away the plates, moving his hips as he dances:

_“I’m coming out, I want the world to know, got to let it show…”_

John bumps against him, giggling as they start the washing up. “I think your Mum just put this song on ‘cause _you_ liked it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Mummy and I went through a time of choreographing a whole routine to it. Mycroft caught us in the kitchen and thought we were drunk.”

John grins, and the words slip out so easily: “Yeah, Harry did the same when-” And then, he stops. “Well. Couldn’t do it all the time. Dad didn’t really…”

John clears his throat and says nothing more, going back to pour out more wine for the both of them. Sherlock watches him, and is suddenly again painfully aware that his own childhood, where he and Mycroft were free to just… _be…_ this was something John and Harry did not share.

He turns down the music, and they slowly drink some more wine, just chatting. Sherlock reminisces for John, telling him just stupid little things: their beach holidays; his father teaching him how to skip stones; the only time Mycroft got horrifically drunk at New Year, and Sherlock, while laughing, took pity on him and they hid in the bathroom, away from the relatives. 

John’s face relaxes gradually, and he smiles at Sherlock’s memories. John has a peculiar way of looking at him. It’s still intimate, of course, but whenever Sherlock mentions something new, it’s as if John is seeing him for the very first time. It’s glorious.

John doesn’t offer any pieces of past back in return- he seems happy to just listen. And that’s all fine with Sherlock. But when they both rise to go to bed, John says. “Think I’ll phone Harry. Forgot. Promised you photos and videos, didn’t I?”

Sherlock smiles and kisses him. “That’d be nice. Only if you want to.”

And then, a few days later, John is left standing in the hall with a parcel.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

John blinks. “Uh- well, that was fast. Harry already had everything transferred to DVD. Um.”

Sherlock doesn’t push it. “Oh. I see.”

He sees the straightening in John’s back, the resolve, and he couldn’t be prouder as John moves to the DVD player. He puts in the disk and then sits on the couch, patting the space next to him. Sherlock joins him.

John clears his throat. “There’s- Dad- he’s not in-”

He coughs again, and Sherlock reaches out and squeezes his knee, then holds his hand. “That’s alright. You don’t need to explain.”

John’s hand tightens briefly as the screen lights up to show a little boy and girl playing on some park swings. The little boy is soaring higher and higher, kicking his legs in determination.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispers. “Look at you. You’re a wonder.”

John laughs softly, and leans against Sherlock.

“Just wait. In a minute Mum’s going to drop the camera ‘cause I’m going too high.”

And there’s still a guarded tone in his voice, of course, but the honesty of it is undeniable. He’s getting there, Sherlock thinks, and glows with more pride.


	33. List: Not Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning for implied suicide attempt

“You didn’t need to get _involved_.”

Sherlock sees Mycroft flinch, and feels a flicker of bitter triumph.

“And what would _you_ have done?” Mycroft spits out.

Sherlock grits his teeth, and prepares as much venom as possible to inject into his next words: “The whole point is it’s _me_ , not _you._ I told you just to leave it.”

Mycroft stands. He turns his back to Sherlock and walks over to the window. He peers out from behind the blinds- no doubt watching bustling nurses, doctors… But, Sherlock has no idea what he’s actually _seeing._

Mycroft turns back around to face him. “You wanted me to leave you,” he says, so quietly that he could just be talking to himself. 

Sherlock pointedly says nothing.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” Mycroft asks. The question sounds empty and hollow. Sherlock watches as he steadies himself by placing two hands on the end of the bed, bowing his head. Sherlock tries to feel nothing at all.

“Do you even have the _faintest_ idea-I-” 

He still hasn’t raised his head. He could be talking to the floor. 

“I call your landline. No reply, but that’s not unusual, not for you. I ring back three times. Nothing. One text. Nothing. So, I call again, and again, and _again_ and it goes straight to voicemail. Then- last resort- I try and check your GPS. But no, you’ve either turned off your phone or it’s out of _fucking battery_ , but that doesn’t matter, you would have told me if- if- but you _didn’t_ , Sherlock, and then I think I’ve missed something, maybe you’ve already told me it would be a- a Danger Night and I just didn’t see but-”

He breathes in and out, irregular and far too quick, and Sherlock can only watch, lost at sea.

“Why didn’t you make a list? You _promised._ ”

Mycroft’s voice is hushed and shaking. Sherlock has never seen him be so willfully, blatantly stupid. He scoffs:

“Oh, I don’t know, _you’re_ the smart one- you tell _me_.”

Mycroft’s head snaps back up. His eyes are wide with rage- no, wrong: he’s _terrified._

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head repeatedly. And Sherlock can’t stand it, that look on his face is all _wrong_ , and the truth bursts out of him, unplanned:

“Well, maybe this time I didn’t think you’d _need_ one!”

An awful silence. And then, the very worst thing: Mycroft just looks at him and, quite suddenly, his face crumples.

“Oh my God,” he says. It’s like the most painful contained scream. “Oh- oh, Sherlock. Oh my God.”

His hands cover his face, and his shoulders start to shake, and Sherlock feels a cold dreadful weight settle in his stomach.

“Mycroft,” he says. “Mycroft, stop it.”

But he doesn’t. He just holds up one hand- a stop signal? Sherlock doesn’t understand- as he cries. Cries. His big brother is crying in front of him.

And suddenly, the numbness finally evaporates, and Sherlock can feel everything all at once, the whole night that he’s tried to push down. His eyes burn.

“My-Mycroft. Mycroft, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think I-”

A hand on his shoulder. Then one on the other. His breath sticks fast in his throat, and the hands squeeze tight. Reassuring. Always there.

“You weren’t thinking. You were feeling,” Mycroft says. The words come out cracked and terrible but there’s nothing judgmental there- just fact.

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels the tears falling. “I-I’m so- I was…scared, but I wanted, I wanted-”

A very nervous laugh. “ _You_ were scared?” The ‘I was much worse’ is left unsaid.

Mycroft moves closer into a hug. He breathes in and out, slowly. “It’s- it’s going to be alright,” he says and, thank God, his normal voice is returning. “We’ll- I’m here. You’ll get through this, Sherlock, I know you will.”

Sherlock sniffs, trying to ignore that his body is shaking. “How do you know?”

Mycroft’s hold tightens for a moment. “I’m the smart one.”


	34. Say It Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new take on The Final Problem "I love you" scene.

John wakes, head throbbing, and breathes in the pungent smell of chlorine. His eyes open at the awful familiarity of it. The Pool.

He looks around frantically, and sees Sherlock slumped against the wall, groaning and rubbing the back of his head.

“Sher-Sherlock!”

Sherlock starts, his eyes widening as he takes in John. “Are you al-”

A dialing tone. Five pips. And then, a ghostly voice echoing off the tiles:

_“Hello. My name is Jim Moriarty. Welcome to The Final Problem.”_

Sherlock looks very pale, and John wants nothing more than to run to him.

“That’s… that’s not possible,” Sherlock says. His eyes scan the place, searching.

And John’s blood turns cold. “Sherlock-”

Sherlock stops, and his eyes follow John’s. The red light dances on his chest.

And then, the voice of Jim Moriarty again, distorted and filled with static, the words sounding wrong and edited, spliced together: _“Fill in the blanks, Johnny boy!”_

A new voice: _“You need to get it out.”_

John must make some sort of noise, because Sherlock is staring at him, stricken. He prays and prays that the recording won’t continue but-

_“My- my best friend. Sh-Sherlock Holmes. Is Dead.”_

Sherlock’s eyes are beginning to fill up, and John wants to scream; he doesn’t want- Sherlock can’t hear him like this- this isn’t-

The tape jumps. And John knows each word off by heart.

_“The stuff that you wanted to say… but didn’t say it.”  
_

_“Yeah.”_

“Stop it,” Sherlock says, abruptly. “Would you just- this is cruel. Stop it.”

The tape continues: _“Say it now.”_

And Sherlock’s reaction breaks John’s heart. His face is still showing his fury, but he’s undeniably holding his breath, as if hoping against hope, waiting to hear-

But John already knows he has let him down. His past wrecked voice fills the pool. _“No. Sorry, I can’t.”_

John is shaking his head. “Sherlock, I…” But he doesn’t know, has never known how to finish that sentence.

Sherlock blinks and some tears fall, and John feels sick.

Suddenly, they are plunged into red light. Moriarty’s voice returns. A count down.

_“10.”_

Sherlock is shaking. The aim of the sniper is still on him. “John, I- I’m sorry.”

_“9.”_

“What are you apologising for, you idiot? We need to think, we can-”

_“8.”_

“John. It’s okay.”

_“7.”_

“ _What?_ Of course, it’s not okay, how can you just sit there and think that, that- tell me what to do.”

_“6.”_

“I- I think- I think there must be a- a release code. Some…”

_“5.”_

“Some what? A word, a number? _Think_ , Sherlock.”

But, oh John Watson, he berates himself. You already know.

Fill in the blanks, Johnny boy.

_“4.”_

The stuff you wanted to say.

_“3.”_

But didn’t say it.

_“2.”_

Say it now.

“I _loved_ him!”

The words are wrenched out, as if something has been scooped out of his very chest. They echo and rebound off the walls, and once they’re out, John can’t stop himself, like something has finally been freed: “Alright? Is that what you needed to hear? That’s what I was going to say. I loved him. I loved him.”

Sherlock is still shaking. “Why- why would they want you to say that?” he whispers. As if it’s a lie. As if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

John’s throat closes up. “Because it’s- it’s _true_ , Sherlock.” He pushes past the tears. “It’s- it’s always been true.”

John swallows and looks Sherlock right in the eye. “I love you,” he says, and it feels like the only sure thing in the universe.

The lights flicker to normal. Sherlock is staring at him. Staring and crying, his lip trembling, desperately trying to speak but he can’t quite get the words out.

A new voice, sharp and crystal clear.

“I applaud the spectacle,” says the woman known as Mary Morstan.


	35. We're Alright

A shaky sigh as they strap themselves in. They had won but- too close. That had been too close. John clutches onto Sherlock’s hand, knuckles turning white.

_That was- too much._

Sherlock’s thumb strokes over John’s hand, and John feels his grip relaxing just a little, his heartbeat finally slowing down. Sherlock squeezes his hand carefully.

_I’m here. We’re alright._

John’s hand moves. His fingers find Sherlock’s wrist.

_Let me just… check. Please._

Sherlock inhales too quickly, and John feels his pulse jump. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers, but John shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. I just- sometimes I just. I need to make sure. You’re. Well-”

Sherlock leans closer and wraps both arms around him. John breathes out. Sherlock’s hand finds the back of his neck, a warm and gentle pressure. He lets himself collapse into it, tension ebbing away.

“We’re going home,” Sherlock murmurs into his hair. He pulls back, hand still on John’s neck, half guiding him to rest his head on his shoulder. A suggestion.

John takes it, and lets his eyes close. 

“We’re- we’re going home,” Sherlock repeats, and now his own voice sounds shaky.

“Shh,” John says. “I know. Sleep, now.”


	36. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for struggling with eating.

He hears John opening the front door, and heading up the stairs, but he can’t bring himself to turn around. He stays put, head stuck out of the open window, trying to steal some clean air. (Impossible).

John’s footsteps falter. “Sherlock? You okay?”

He briefly considers lying. Then, as John’s left the door open, the smell of Mrs Hudson cooking casserole reaches him. Usually, it’s welcome, but now it turns his stomach.

He hears John move closer, can picture him taking everything in: the torn notes, the laptop with uncountable documents open, only an abandoned glass of water on the table. 

He makes a low noise in sympathy. “An…eight then?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and closes his eyes. “Nine. It’s too- can’t find a pattern and-I can’t-” Nausea spikes, and he groans.

John’s hand brushes over his hair, an oh so gentle touch. He doesn’t ask when was the last time he ate. Sherlock knows John isn’t stupid- he can draw his own conclusions from the evidence in front of him.

He feels John reaching over him, pushing the window open more. The air is blessedly cool. And John wanders off to the kitchen, pottering about, putting the kettle on to boil. Sherlock closes his eyes. 

He opens them when he hears the gentle thunk of something being set down on the table. He turns and sees the two plates of toast and two cups of tea on the table. John takes a piece, and eats, then reaches for a newspaper to read.

Sherlock can see his own toast has the thinnest layer of margarine on it- how he likes it. But, John doesn’t say anything, doesn’t insist on anything at all. 

A few moments pass. Sherlock closes the window and, embarrassed, realises that even that movement makes him a touch light-headed. Right, then.

He eats slowly, and carefully, sipping from his tea after a few bites. He can feel a little strength returning, the frenzied data in his head finally calming and rearranging into something understandable.

John walks over, and smiles. He takes Sherlock’s empty plate. “Bit better?”

Sherlock finally breathes out properly. “Much.” 


	37. Not Surprising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation to this: http://jenna221b.tumblr.com/post/156820506780/john-and-sherlock-decide-to-take-rosie-on-a-trip

It’s dusk now, but still warm in the summer heat. Sherlock heads out to the garden and starts laughing at the sight: his father, chasing Rosie through the grass again. Her giggles are wonderfully loud and unrestrained. 

His father laughs with her, and jokingly growls, “I’m coming to get you!” She squeals and runs, sometimes trips and falls a little, but never hurts herself, is always scooped up with an ‘Oopsie Daisy!’ before she claps for the chase to begin again. 

He walks over to them. As he reaches them, Rosie sits down right there in the grass in a happily exhausted heap. His father chuckles and sits too, his knees cracking. 

“Hello,” Sherlock says, smiling. He sits down with them, crossing his legs.

“Hello, son. Where’s your John?”

Sherlock’s heart skips a little in joy. _Your John._ “Oh, he’s- he was tired. I told him to get ready for bed. He got a bit…”

Sherlock doesn’t really know how to describe it, so he vaguely gestures towards Rosie, and the garden, and somehow, wonderfully, his father still knows exactly what he means.

“Ah,” he says. “Emotional?”

“A bit.”

Rosie chooses this moment to stand and toddle over to Sherlock. “Hello, darling,” Sherlock says. “Did you have fun?”

She grins and collapses into his lap, leaving him a little winded. His father laughs gently. 

“Oh, you two have a right little star there, don’t you?”

Sherlock watches Rosie as she leans against his chest, yawning. “Well. She takes after her lovely Dad.” 

His father smiles, but looks at him pointedly. “And you’ve given her a lovely home. A lovely life.” 

“That’s far too many times we’ve said ‘lovely’, now,” Sherlock jests, but he feels his throat try and close up a bit with emotion. He coughs. Looks down at Rosie, who has drifted into sleep. 

“I’m- I’m going to ask John to marry me,” Sherlock says. It feels so very strange, to hear that out loud, this question and plan he’s agonised over for what feels like a lifetime, keeping it guarded and precious and secret,

His father is _beaming_. “Well. Isn’t that _lovely!_ ”

Sherlock laughs, feeling suddenly tearful. But still happy. Oh, he’s so _happy._  

“I’ll tell your mother,” his father continues, seemingly sensing Sherlock’s inability to speak. “She’ll be over the moon- but not quietly over the moon. Just in case John overhears.”

Sherlock laughs again. He presses a hand to one eye, sniffing back tears, cuddling Rosie with the other. “Who would have thought it?” he says, forcing the words out. “Me. This. Marriage.”

His father looks at him with a soft, knowing smile. “I don’t think it’s very surprising at all,” he says. “Still a big thing, wonderful- but not surprising. You’ve always had such a big heart, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. If the movement wouldn’t have risked waking Rosie, he would have reached over and hugged his father there on the spot.

“Now, come on. I’ll take that little one to bed, you go back to John.”

“Are you sure you-”

“Nonsense. Your mother and I are naturals at this. She’s a little angel compared to you and Mycroft.”

Sherlock snorts. “We saw bedtime as a challenge to defeat, not a necessity.”

“Don’t I know it.”

And then his father surprises him, as he takes Rosie from his arms. He reaches forward and kisses Sherlock’s temple.

“I’m so proud of you, Sherlock. You’ve- you’ve deserved this for quite some time.”

And, again, Sherlock finds he can no longer speak.


	38. Matchmaker

The door opens and Sherlock nearly walks headfirst into her, and Stella’s heart sinks. She thought she’d had the perfect opportunity and now-

Sherlock blinks. “What are you doing here?”

She sets her jaw, gaze challenging. “Collecting files.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch. “Files,” he deadpans.

And she’s not giving him the satisfaction of giving up, now. “Files.”

Sherlock sighs and glances behind him, making sure the door is fully closed. “You know…” he says. “Molly and I… _talk_.” 

Stella bristles. “What’s Molly got to do with anything?”

But Sherlock continues to speak as if he hasn’t heard the interruption. “And, recently, she’s been saying… an awful lot. About someone. Not that she’s said it outright but, well-” And now, _he_ stumbles a little, a slight blush on his cheeks. “-I recognise the pattern.”

Stella tilts her head in confusion.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I mean. I mean. I-I _talked_ , too. About…about John.”

And Stella has had it with these riddles, she just wants him to be done with and shove off, already. She raises her eyebrows. _“So…?”_

Sherlock sighs again, all haughty drama. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m saying you have a chance. A very _very_ good one.”

Her heart leaps. “Sherlock. I-oh God. You have to be sure, I-”

And Sherlock is just smiling fondly, now. “Come on, then,” he says. “I have a case. Well, _you_ have a case, rather.”

“I do?”

“Yup. I was just about to help you get those _files_ , when- oh, damn, would you look at that.” He brandishes his phone screen at her, which is quite obviously blank. “I have a call. Got to take it, terribly important, I’m afraid, so that means-”

And, without warning, he grabs Stella by the arm and opens the door, pulling her into the lab. It’s an utter whirlwind, and she hardly even registers that she’s practically been thrown into Molly’s arms.

Oh God.

Vaguely, Stella hears the door slam shut again, and Sherlock’s upbeat footsteps- the bastard- fading away. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry, I was- looking for-um-files,” she babbles, her mind screaming to move _away_ , but still hanging onto Molly’s arms for balance.

Her face is growing hotter and hotter, and Jesus, Molly looks stunning, hair all with soft flyaway strands from a day at work, and her lips curving into a gorgeous smile and-oh God, has she been at the door the whole time?! Has she heard-

“Stella!” Molly exclaims. Her voice is somehow both shaky and firm. She squeezes Stella’s arms and Stella tries to keep breathing.

Molly takes a deep breath. “Yes, I’ll go out for dinner with you.”

Stella gapes. “How did you- I haven’t even-”

And Molly exhales, finally sounding as nervous as Stella feels. “If- if you don’t want- of course that’s fine but- but. If you do…um. Shall we say, Friday, seven ish? There’s an Italian I’d like to-”

And Stella can’t help it as the relieved giggles spill out of her. “Slow down, Hooper,” she says, finally letting go and reaching for her phone. “I haven’t even given you my number yet.”


	39. John & A Cat

Sherlock considers John thoughtfully, watching him from the window above.

“I never knew you liked cats,” he murmurs, knowing they’re words only he will hear. 

He watches John pet the little ginger cat just outside Speedy’s- it could be a stray, or just a greedy local that comes round for the food, Sherlock’s seen it before. Of course, what he _hasn’t_ seen before is John’s reaction to said cat. Years ago, back when he was flashing a camera at Connie Price’s brother, Sherlock had thought John _hated_ cats.

But now. Now, as John bends down to gently stroke the cat, grinning, lips moving, no doubt speaking nonsense, this is a conclusion Sherlock will have to reconsider. 

John somehow looks suddenly years younger. Sherlock wonders if he had a cat when he was young… interesting. He can’t tell. 

Perhaps John’s always been a natural at befriending lost ones.


	40. The Strand & Scones

“Well, _really,_ John,” Sherlock scoffs. “It’s true, I _am_ hardly in it.”

John rolls his eyes. “It was necessary, dear. If you were there from the very beginning, you would have deduced that it was merely a dog with some paint-”

Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms. “I _was_ there from the very beginning!”

“Exactly. How would that have sold? A few measly paragraphs in the Strand and-”

“Oh, what are you two on about now?” Mrs Hudson chuckles, bustling in with afternoon tea.

Sherlock snatches up a scone. “I am objecting to Dr Watson’s version of “the dog one”-”

_“The Hound of the Baskervilles.”_

“Oh, aren’t you always,” Mrs Hudson half placates, half chuckles. 

She leaves soon enough, and they sip their tea in companionable silence.

John clears his throat. “Sherlock. Let me take you out tonight.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling. “Oh? Planning to buy my adulation for your work, Doctor?”

“Heavens, no, I wouldn’t waste my time on that. You have a subscription to the Strand yourself, don’t think I haven’t noticed. In any case, I hear the opera is excellent tonight. Dinner and a show?”

Sherlock chuckles, and stands to draw the curtains. “You are _incorrigible_ , my dear Watson,” he whispers, and leans in for a kiss.


	41. An Introduction

Sherlock, you alright? You’ve been a bit quiet. Got some cracking case files I can sneak you. -G

_He’s not available at the moment. -M_

Excuse me? Who’s this??

_~~An interested par-~~ _

_~~A concerned-~~ _

_I’m Sherlock’s brother. -M_

He never told me he had a brother. 

_That does not surprise me. -M_

Is he okay?

_Sleeping. -M_

_Sorry, I neglected to answer your question. He will be. -M_

You okay?

? -M

I’m just asking if you’re okay.

_Interesting. Why do you care? -M_

Well, cause I know it’s tough. Seeing him like that.

_Kindly delete these texts after I’ve sent my private number. -M_

?

_You’re a Detective Inspector, figure it out. Besides, I doubt Sherlock would be pleased that I’ve been using his phone. -M_

“private number” jesus, you sound like a government official.

Hello?

You there?

_Sorry. Sherlock wasn’t well. He’s sleeping again. I’m sending my number now. -M_

Okay

_It’s Mycroft Holmes, if it matters. -M_

Greg Lestrade.

Talk to you soon, Mycroft.


	42. A Difference in Stature

“John! They’re getting away!”

John leans against the wall, unfazed, and rolls his eyes. “Well, I can’t tell that, can I?”

“What are you talking about? They just ran and-”

“Oh for the love of- Sherlock!”

Finally, Sherlock’s head turns round to look down at John. His arms shake a little with the effort of keeping himself hanging, suspended, at the top of the wall.

John folds his arms. “Yeah, I gave you a boost up, I can’t give _myself_ one.”

With a grunt and a sigh, Sherlock lets go of the wall and drops back down to the pavement. 

“Sorry,” he says, a touch awkwardly, but sincerely. “I forgot you’re-well-”

He actually pats John on the head with one gloved hand. John fights both impulses to either bat said hand away in rage, or laugh. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “There’s another-uh-way. If I remember correctly. Perhaps more suited to your…” His hand twirls. “Stature.”

John snorts. “My _stature_. Fine. Lead the way, Mr Gangly-Holmes.”

Later, culprit caught, the victory and adrenaline still pounding in their veins, they stumble into 221B and collapse against the wall, laughing fit to burst.

John turns, grabs Sherlock’s lapels, and stretches up onto his tip-toes. 

Sherlock is still giggling.

“For Christ’s-” John tugs on the lapels. “When will you- learn. To bloody- _Crouch._ ” 

A sly foot delicately trips John until they’ve both fallen against the stairs. They lie on their backs, another laughing fit ignited, until Sherlock finally, _finally,_ leans across and kisses John.

“Never,” Sherlock murmurs, smiling as John kisses him back.


	43. A Nick

“This. Is. _Unacceptable._ ”

John raises a hand, reaching towards Sherlock, but he’s already pacing away, coat swishing around in fury. 

“Sherlock,” John placates. “It’s-”

“Can’t believe Lestrade’s already cuffed him. I swear, if he’d-if he’d-”

“-it’s okay-”

And Sherlock whirls around to face him, eyes simultaneously blazing and swimming with tears.

“Don’t you _dare_ say that, don’t even- of _course_ it’s not okay, he could have- he might have-”

John touches the wound at his scalp by way of a demonstration and does his best not to wince. “It’s just a nick,” he says. “Hardly anything at all.”

Finally, Sherlock goes to him, sits down and gently cradles John’s head in his hands, not touching the wound.

“But something,” he whispers. “Something. Too much.”

John sighs, and leans into Sherlock’s touch. He knows it’s always a risk, this life they lead. All they can do is promise to be careful, to never intentionally leave.

 _And that’s enough,_ John thinks, as Sherlock sniffs and tries to gather himself. _That has to be enough._


	44. The Idea Of...

Sherlock takes a deep breath and braces himself. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Molly doesn’t gasp, she doesn’t drop the test tube- in fact, she hardly reacts at all. She glances at Sherlock, safety goggles fogged up a little. 

“Alright,” she nods.

There’s a pause. Sherlock clears his throat. “Um-” he says, eloquently.

Molly sighs and takes off her goggles with a snap. “Let’s take a break,” she says, even though she’s the only one who’s really been working- with Sherlock blankly staring into space for the past fifteen minutes.

She walks out, and returns with the kettle from the staff room and sets it on to boil. Two cups of tea made, she sets them on the lab table, and gestures for Sherlock to pull up a stool. 

Sherlock stares at the steam rising from his cup. Molly taps her cup against his, a tiny _cheers_ motion, causing him to look up.

“You have been a bit of an arse,” she says, and he smiles.

“More than a bit. Sorry. I believe I…” He trails off, shakes his head. “Scratch that- I _know_ I’ve… manipulated certain… things to my- my advantage. And I shouldn’t have. I’ve been a shit friend, really.” Suddenly, a panicked thought. “We _are_ _still_ friends?”

Molly nods, and laughs in reassurance. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“I’m gay,” Sherlock says, waving a hand to his chest, and Molly nods again. 

“I know. I’ve known for… a while. I think I was-” She shrugs, self-deprecating. “In love with the idea of… you? Of love? So. _I’m_ sorry for that.”

Sherlock mulls over on that, the _idea_ of something. “I understand.”

“I think I’m gay, too,” Molly says.

Sherlock blinks. Grins. “Um…well, then. Well… done?”

Molly rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “Wow, thanks.”

“Are you… please say you’re finally asking out Stella.”

She flushes. “Am I that obvious?”

Sherlock shrugs. “No. I’ve just… I know the… signs.”

Molly winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Past is the past, all’s well that ends well, etc, etc.”

“Anyway, I’m asking her out this Wednesday at 12:03 pm. Not for coffee, obviously.”

“That’s rather specific.”

“I’m only telling you so you can chase me up on it.”

“Oh. That’s what friends are for.”

Molly drains her tea, and glances at the clock. “Well, I’d better get back to it,” she says. She takes Sherlock’s empty cup, too, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” she tells him, and her voice seems a touch more choked up than the situation requires.

Sherlock frowns. “Are you alright, Molly?”

She shrugs again, and laughs at herself, and Sherlock wishes she wouldn’t. “It’s… my Dad died today. Thought I’d be working alone and I was so… worked up about it. So. Thanks.”

Sherlock takes the cups from her. “Clock out now, you’ve not eaten today. No, don’t- I know you’ve not. Lunch is on me.”


	45. Quite Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's thoughts as Sherlock's sheet fell...

This is the most ridiculous-

No. _Almost,_ remember. 

They’re really standoff-ish, Jesus, me and Harry were never that bad, surely…well, actually.

Ha, can’t believe he told Mr Harry of Buckminster or wherever to basically piss off, I love-um-that is-

Oh. Well, that was-

Unexpected.

I-

I should be-

Embarrassed?

No, _he’ll_ be embarrassed, probably, but there’s nothing… nothing to be ashamed-

Shit, am I still staring.

That’s really-

Quite.

Something.

Pull yourself together, Watson. You’re in Buckingham Palace.

What would the Queen say.

Oh, sod Lizzie.


	46. Excuses

Mycroft is rather surprised at his office door opening to reveal Sherlock. He blinks and glances at his phone screen. No new texts. Odd.

“Is something wrong?”

Sherlock shakes his head and brings out a folder from behind his back. He chucks it onto Mycroft’s desk with a flourish. “Solved some back-dated ones for you.”

Mycroft takes the folder. “Oh. That’s… rather nice of you.”

Sherlock smiles. “Yeah, I’m trying it out.”

Mycroft looks at the papers and laughs. “I sent you these six months ago.”

“I didn’t say I was being _promptly_ nice.”

There’s a pause where Mycroft does his best to imitate a put-upon sigh. But he’s already caught sight of the clock, and he has to steel himself, stop himself from starting.

He’s late.

When he looks away from the time, Sherlock is frowning. 

“What?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing. Your eyes just-” He breaks off to smirk. “Glazed over, a bit.”

“Well…” 

He can’t finish it, because he doesn’t know what to say. What he _can_ say.

But Sherlock’s eyes narrow- jumping to conclusions. Again.

“Do you have a normal work to life balance?” he asks blandly, and Mycroft nearly chokes.

“What does that even mean?”

“Well.” Sherlock looks around the office. “You do practically _live_ here.”

Mycroft spots his chance. “I must be… tired,” he lies.

Sherlock steps back a little at the admission. “Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. “I’m sorry.”

_Oh God, please don’t say it sincerely. Why do you have to be nice **now?** Why can’t you just be awful and I wouldn’t have to…_

He makes his excuses and darts  out of the office before Sherlock can say another word.

One car ride later, and Mycroft once again steels himself.

James Moriarty is waiting for him in the darkened room.

“Hello, Ice Man,” he says in greeting, and without looking, Mycroft still knows he’s smiling at him. His insides turn cold.

“What story are you selling to me, today?”


	47. Pulled Back

It doesn’t happen very often, not nowadays.

One day John can feel something building but he isn’t quite sure what it is. It feels like a pressure from within, a looming headache, an itchiness in his eyes. It’s odd. He thinks it’s just tiredness.

But then, when he and Sherlock are just on their way to the supermarket, John figures it out. Logically, he knows it was a bus that zoomed past them, the engine rattling. But, he suddenly hears the distant sound of gunfire.

He stops dead in the pavement, and barely notices Sherlock faltering beside him. He feels very hot, shirt sticking to his back.

“John?”

John blinks. He can still look at where Sherlock is, that’s still something at least. But, behind Sherlock is the background of a desert, an unforgiving sun.

“You’ve got sand in your hair,” John says, detached.

“Sorry?”

John scrubs at his eyes but the image remains the same. “I think,” he begins, and his knees start to sag. “I think I need to sit down for a bit.”

But Sherlock is already supporting him, leading him to a wall. “Well, I’ll join you, then,” he says.

John tries to breathe through the suffocating air.

Sherlock grips his hand. He starts saying the most random of things, listing the nearest tube stations to them, all the different lines, and squeezing his hand repeatedly, grounding John in location. London. London. London.

The air cools. He can breathe.

Sherlock’s face in front of him, a crease in his forehead. “Better?” He holds his hand out.

John smiles and takes the hand, and lets Sherlock pull him back up. “Home,” he says simply, and they walk on.


	48. Leave The Candle Burning

It feels different. John had suspected something but hadn’t dared to hope when Sherlock oh so casually mentioned he’d booked them in to Angelo’s. There definitely wasn’t a case on, there was no special occasion (unless a random Friday counted as one), and John tried to stop himself, but surely the only _logical_ solution was…

And then, oh thank God, his hopes aren’t raised in vain. They sit down at their table, and John notes the lit candle that’s been placed on the table, next to their reserved sign.

Sherlock puts the sign onto the floor, but his hand stays hovering over the candle.

John gathers his courage. He reaches across the table and covers Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“No, just leave it there,” he says, certain and smiling.

Sherlock looks up. “Oh,” is all he replies with. And there’s a smile tugging at his lips, one John can read so well, now.

Sherlock had been hoping, too.

“So,” John leans back, and winks. “Nice place for a date.”

Sherlock’s smile widens. He looks down, then back up coyly. “Do you come here often?” he asks. His words take on the most atrocious attempt at an American accent, and John snorts into his wine.

“Really, Sherlock. This is... sweet of you.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “I’m not sweet.”

“Oh, and there’s gullible written on the ceiling.”

John playfully kicks Sherlock when he dramatically cranes his neck to look up.


	49. The Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John after The Reichenbach Fall.

Can’t look around without seeing him. Seeing him everywhere: in the mug he chipped during an experiment, and insisted on drinking out of it to prove a point; the dust floating by the windows; the stacks of tea-stained notes on the table.

John sees it all, but doesn’t want to look for any signs. What if he sound something? He doesn’t think he could bear it.

_Were you not happy, Sherlock? And I didn’t- I didn’t see...oh, Jesus. I’m sorry, I’d do anything, I’m-_

He hovers in the doorway of that place. He can still smell him. Remembers hovering on the threshold, wine bottle in hand, a promising smile.

I was going to tell you, right then, just... I might have kissed you. Would you still be here, if I had kissed you?

He collapses, just out of reach of Sherlock’s bed. He breathes in the dying memory, and chokes and cries on it.


	50. Actually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: "I wish you would write a fic where sherlock and john are dancing together, but sherlock's not teaching john, they just dance"

John can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it happened. The evening has been a joyful blur, takeaway, wine, Sherlock’s inane commentary on _Strictly Come Dancing_ , and John giggling every time he swears in outrage at the judges’ decisions.

But then, another couple waltzes on stage and there’s music playing, and Sherlock turns up the volume, tugging John off the couch.

He’s taken by surprise, all those rules Sherlock had drilled into him in preparation for That Awful Day forgotten. His posture is abysmal, and he treads on Sherlock’s feet countless times.

At the fourth breathless “Sorry, Sher-”, Sherlock chuckles and pulls him close. John feels his chest vibrate with laughter. 

“Would you stop bloody _apologsing_?” Sherlock says. “Who cares if you’re shit? I’m not your _teacher._ ”

John elbows him gently. “I really think motivational speaking is your calling.”

Sherlock tuts. “Oh, you know I didn’t mean… I just-” He shrugs. “I just want to dance.”

John stops dancing, but keeps his arms in waltz hold. There’s a little shaky note in Sherlock’s voice, and it makes his gut twinge. “You… you actually just love dancing.”

Sherlock shrugs again. He’s looking at the floor. “Yes. Yes, I do. Actually.”

Their hug is short but fierce, John quickly resuming their dancing positions. “I’m sorry,” he says one last time, and before Sherlock can protest, he continues: “I’m sorry I didn’t realise before.”

Sherlock shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. “It’s... it’s okay. You’re here now.”

Without warning, he spins John around, and John takes Sherlock’s resuming laughter as an apology accepted.


	51. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: I wish you would write a fic where Hoopkins are at their first Pride Parade together

She breathes in the smell of face paint, feels her very chest vibrate with the music, hears Stella’s raucous chanting of  _“Every woman is a lesbian at heart”_ and laughs for the sheer joy of it. 

Molly Hooper is used to the assumptions. She’s heard it at school, and noticed how some labels try to follow her. Wallflower. Unnoticeable. 

And she always wondered why other labels stuck more than others, why some things were assumed, and why she could never challenge...

But now, she realises she can change that. Her eyes well up as Stella takes picture after picture of the floats and flags. This is Their Day. This is _her_ day.

“Hooper!” Stella calls, jokingly using her work voice, before slipping back to a gleeful: “C’mon, Molly, don’t daydream, _look!_ ”

Molly thinks of replying “I’m not daydreaming”. She thinks of telling Stella how much this means, everything she’s been thinking, she wants to gush, wants her to know all. Tonight, she decides.

For now, she holds Stella’s hand for the whole of London, for the whole world to see, holds it tight and proudly. This is who they are. And today they are bright and bold and beautiful. 


End file.
